


Let Me Be the One

by Lauren_StDavid



Series: Beechwood [4]
Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Angst, Light BDSM, Literal peeing contest, M/M, Mike working as a Texscort, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual fantasy about mildly dubious consent, Slight Mike/Micky, Slight Peter/Micky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2020-03-09 02:24:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 66,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18907591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauren_StDavid/pseuds/Lauren_StDavid
Summary: When a new chick starts hanging out with the group mere weeks into Mike and Peter's new relationship, their different and changing reactions to her bring up a lot about themselves and their feelings for each other—stuff they're not necessarily ready to deal with...Huge thanks to the Sunshine Factory website https://monkees.coolcherrycream.com/ for all the fantastic info and pictures! I couldn't have written any of these fics without that lovely treasure trove to mine.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Elements of their rl personalities have seeped in.

Mike glared at the Monkeemobile’s speedometer, wishing it was showing more but supposing he should be glad it wasn’t. He weighed the conditioning factors: earlyish Tuesday morning, not much traffic on the canyon roads, so he could put his foot down. On the other hand, the roads were narrow and a high speed would make it harder to stop and back up for a car coming toward them. Plus, the canyon roads tended to zigzag, needing slower speeds on bends, and their edges weren’t that well maintained… Peter shifted in the passenger seat next to him.

“I know.” Mike glanced over at him, wishing like hell they weren’t on the road, were still tucked up together. “I know I’m going too fast and better cool it before we get to Crescent. I know I should have let you drive. I also know this is my fault. Yes, I feel responsible and guilty, and not just because we took time to ourselves.”

Peter stretched a little in the bucket seat. “You seem to have my part down—do you actually need me, for anything at all?”

His calm tone and light humor defused Mike, as they were designed to. He flicked on the indicator to get onto Crescent Heights, a smile growing. “Babe, you can’t think I don’t need you, especially after last night and this morning!”

“We did…overindulge,” Peter mused. “I’m blissfully sore. Front and back.”

Mike, still aching too, squashed down the image Peter’s words conjured up. Him, Peter, alone in a cabin. Peter in his bunny pajamas, acting the little innocent because he knew it flipped Mike—and because it was a whole groove for Peter too. Despite Mike’s best efforts, the image refused to disappear: him, Peter, no one around to hear them— He scowled. “Just as well we did. Because, you know, I thought romantic getaways were supposed to last longer than fifteen hours!”

“Talking of, good morning.”

“Yeah. It is, because I’m with you. Good morning back. And I love you.” Mike added the last because he liked being the first to say it, each day. “But I guess I learned one thing. And that’s when we do get the chance for a proper—”

“Or improper, seeing as what we do is illegal—”

“—break, we are not telling anyone the _phone_ number, man!”

Mike took a deep breath to chill. Peter turned on the radio and tilted his head at the country music sawing out. “When were you last in the passenger seat?” he enquired, retuning to another station, passenger’s choice.

Mike smirked. “Bout an hour ago, remember?” It had been so wonderful. Just him and Peter alone in that cabin, talking and kissing and cuddling on the big wooden bed, falling asleep making love and waking up still entwined, to do it again. The deep breath hadn’t worked. Irritation threatened to sizzle the haze of the memory. “I just can’t believe we’d get a phone call saying one of the ki—”

“Ahem.”

“—our roommates is in some kind of crazy trouble.”

“Nice save. And, really? You can’t?”

Even on a scant few hours’ sleep, Peter looked sunlit and angelic, his dark-blond hair haloed and his eyes gleaming a golden-brown in the thin sun. Mike’s heart melted. He still couldn’t believe Peter was his. “Yeah. Fair point there, babe.”

“And we don’t know exactly what’s what. That phone call was a little vague,” Peter reminded him.

“I got the gist.” Mike braked sharply and reduced his speed. “As I say, I guess I caused it, so I’ll sort it.”

“ _We_ will, yep.”

Mike accepted the rebuke with a dip of his head.

“Don’t turn yet. Go farther along Sunset.” Peter pointed.

“Babe?” Mike nevertheless obeyed.

“There’s that donut stall Micky likes. I’ll jump out and get a box and catch you up.”

“ _Peter!_ ”

His cry was in vain: Peter hopped out of the car in the traffic, rounded the car, and was jogging off to the kiosk. The stop-start-slow of the traffic meant Mike didn’t get far down the street before Peter was on his way back to him. He stared in the wing mirror at Peter slowing his pace to smile wide at a pretty girl and stroke her face with his open palm as he passed her. Mike honked the horn, his thumped fist jerky, although he wasn’t having to hold up the traffic for Peter.

He hoped Peter knew the girl, from the point of view of not getting his face slapped in retaliation, or getting the cops called on him. He kinda hoped Peter _didn’t_ know the chick, from the point of view of Peter being irresistible to women. Mike thought the chick was a waitress at the Hear Say or some healthy eating place along here they’d been for lunch.

“What’s that frown for?” Peter slipped into the passenger seat, juggling the pink paperboard box.

“Oh, just thinking we’ll need a bigger box of fast food.”

“To make him all better, afterward? Or to use as bait, lay a trail?” Peter grinned.

“Yeah, then have a stick with a rope tied around it propping the box up? So we can spy and pull the stick away at the right moment?” He went to change the radio station and Peter smacked his hand away.

“Shotgun calls it,” he remonstrated, pointing at the classical music coming out of the speaker. “You think that trap would work?”

Mike huffed at the traffic nonflow. “If it doesn’t, we’ll have time to weave a rope and stuff a pile of cushions by the time we get back to the pad.”

“A pile of cushions… That’d be so groovy to have on the floor. And you know, I like the cabin, with the bed in the main room like that.”

“What? The way that bed’s more in the middle of the floor than tucked away against a wall or in a corner, it seems like an orgy’s just about to start, man!”

“Interesting the way your mind works…and Imminent Orgy’s an interesting design esthetic!”

They were still riffing on decorating styles and what to call the pad’s décor —Mike’s ‘mid-sixties LA poor’ winning over Peter’s ‘frat-house chic’—when they got back. Leaping from the car, Mike realized Peter had worked to take his mind off the situation, because now, here, it hit him a hammer blow.

“Michael.” Peter slammed his door. “Hang loose.” He flickered his gaze upward. “Whatever’s happened or happening, we don’t want to scare him, make it worse.”

“I just feel responsible! It was my stupid suggestion, trying to, well—” _Bribe him into being okay with us—me—taking off? Distract him about us—me—being gone, being in a relationship, stirring up the status quo?_

Peter held Mike’s face, narrowing his eyes at him. Mike wished he wouldn’t. When Peter’s irises gleamed amber like that, they saw too much. “Because you have a shared history with him? It’s okay, Michael. We said we wouldn’t discuss our pasts.”

“You…don’t understand,” Mike settled for. “It’s not—”

The door opened and Davy stood there.

“Davy!” Mike grabbed him. “He’s not hurt bad or unconscious or—” The relief that swamped him when Davy shook his head weakened him. “Then how come a guy as skinny and acrobatic as Micky is trapped on the roof like a fucken fat-ass racoon down a goddamn drainpipe?”

“He’s not…physically trapped in any way.”

“Wut? Then why d’you call us telling us…” Not _physically_ trapped… Dread sluiced through Mike as alternatives occurred. “You're not saying he’s—”

“ _God_ , Michael! Of course not!” Peter waved a hand in front of Mike’s face.

“He’s just bloody _stuck_ , Mike. Look, come in, yeah? I don’t see how you’re going to solve anything stood there.”

Davy was right. “And I don’t see how the hell he’d get stuck on the goddamn roof!” Mike yelped, prey to the emotions swirling through him. He took the box of donuts and headed in, then out of the sundeck door to peer up. Up at the roof, where Micky’s face was just visible at the edge. Was he lying facedown, gripping the guttering?

“Hey, Mick.” Mike kept his tone even. “Picked up some breakfast from that fried stuff place you like. You know, I never figured out why you dig eating from street vendors? The carts and kiosks? Thought that was New Yorkers and not Angelenos, and Pete and Davy are the ones who lived in the Big Apple, not you. Huh. So y’all want the marble frosted or the chocolate glazed?”

“I’m kinda stuck, Mike. Can’t move,” Micky called down.

“So Davy said. But you’re one-fourth Monkee and at least half monkey—how’d you get trapped?”

The noise sounded like Micky biting back a giggle. “I guess I froze?”

“In _this_ sun? Well, looks like a job for a Monkeeman. You just gotta imagine the costume, okay?”

Mike swung up a leg and started climbing, a donut clamped between his lips. He soon reached the top. “Move over.” He was pleased to see Micky had enough command over his muscles to shove himself along a little.

The deflated tent was on the roof, evidence Mick had camped out, as Mike had suggested he do. There was no sign of alcohol, but maybe he’d been smoking or had taken something. Mike hadn’t realized Davy would be out, leaving Micky alone all evening and night. Guilt hit him and he eyed Micky closely, trying to disguise the fact he was doing so.

“You wanna eat?” Mike’s voice came thickly from around the donut he still held between his teeth. “Sit up then.”

Micky promptly straightened into a sit, and Mike leaned in to give him mouth-to-mouth breakfast, which Micky sucked in and swallowed in a second, licking the sugar from his lips after.

“Thanks! Hey, you bring coffee too?” Micky squirmed and giggled at Mike’s pretend tickle to his ribs. “Oh, man! You know, I feel better already? I think maybe my blood sugar was low?”

 _I think maybe you were faking_ , Mike thought, but didn’t say, mainly because he didn’t understand. “Well, don’t wanna rush you, and you should probably be taking things easy, but Davy’s got the jelly one there—”

“ _Jam,_ ” came from around a mouthful of fried dough.

“And he’ll be on to the kreme in a sec—”

But Micky was gone, swinging over the corner, shinning down the pipe and landing on the wooden sundeck boards which shook under him. With a “They’re mine, you little limey Artful Dodger—” he chased Davy inside.

Mike made his slower, more cautious way down to a frowning Peter.

“What was all that about?”

“I don’t know,” Mike replied, still a little disgruntled at his break with Peter being cut short. But concern won out. “We’d better keep an eye on him.” Because that gleam in Mick’s eyes had been odd. If Mike didn’t know better, he would have classified it as _sly_.

“He’s been a little off, lately,” Peter mused.

“ _Babe._ ” Mike shook his head. “How could we tell? No. I get it. It’s…” _Since we became involved,_ he didn’t have to say. Peter understood. “Yeah. See how he is. If not, talk to him?” And wouldn’t that be fun. _Not._ “Come on.”

“Did you two gannets leave us any breakfast?” he called, heading into the kitchen and hoping Davy had coffee going. Or even tea. Or that there was some juice. Even a packet of Kool-Aid, even the orange flavor.

As soon as Mike sat down, he saw the note in Mick’s handwriting pinned on the notice board. “Mick, that audition you set up a couple days ago—it’s today! Soon, in fact. Look.” He pointed.

“Oh, yeah.” Micky crammed in the last donut and dabbed a licked finger into the corner of the box to capture the last few grains of sugar remaining there. “Yeah. But, well, I dunno…”

“What don’t you know? ’Cause _we_ know you’ve been going on about it since you struck out at the audition last year when the show started,” Davy threw in. “So what’s this, they’re freshening up the cast for the second year? That’s the sophomore year in high school, right?”

“’S right. We have four years. Freshman, sophomore, junior, senior.” Peter poured hot water into mugs. “I was sorry you didn’t get the part, Micky. It’d suit you.”

“And even a minor role in _Hollywood Hills High_ would have paid most of the rent.” Micky nodded. “Wow. Imagine. I wouldn’t have to lift a finger around here in that case, right?”

“I guess.” Mike flicked his ear for him. “So worth it from that point of view, huh? And aren’t you always saying auditions are the places to meet people for other work, different jobs?”

“Yeah… I’m just feeling kinda clanked. Uptight, you know?” Micky played with the lid of the empty donut box, making little rips in its fold. “Like, even the thought of driving there?” He looked up and made a face.

 “I’ll drive you.” Peter looked at Mike over Micky’s head. “Okay?”

Mike shrugged. They didn’t need the car until later.

“Would you stay and wait for me? With me?” Micky grabbed at Peter’s arm. “Oh, you know what would be totally outta sight groovy fab? If you all came and hung out there while I auditioned!”

“What?” Mike frowned.

“Yeah!” Micky looked brighter than he had and his energy seemed to be returning. “I just think it would make me feel better. Do better, you know?”

“Sure, man.” Davy patted Micky’s shoulder.

He was probably thinking about all the cute little actresses wriggling around on the lot.

Peter nodded. “No hassle.”

Mike hoped Peter wasn’t.

“Wait, we got our gig tonight. We gotta get there for rehearsal.” Mike tried being the voice of reason.

“We are rehearsed! We can take our instruments with us and just do a sound check at the Duke Box if it goes on that late. There’s catering provided at the studio and the chicks can always get us some sort of supper arranged at the Duke Box,” Micky argued. “Plus the lot’s on Sunset, not _that_ far from the Strip, where the Duke Box is.”

Mike was still protesting when he was changing into his band shirt—Micky insisting they all wore one, for luck—casing his guitar and loading the Monkeemobile for later, driving back up into Hollywood and turning into the Hobart Street entrance of the huge Monumental Studios that took up a ten-acre square block of land. Okay, so this was a totally different studio, not even in the same part of town as the lot they’d been to two weeks ago, but still…

“Good morning.” Micky, curls barely tamed after a hasty washing, leaned out of the passenger window to smile at the security guard in his little booth inside the entrance. “And what a fine morning it is. Hey hey, we’re the Monkees, auditioning for the role of the band in the Hot Spot, on _Hollywood Hills High_ , soundstage nine.”

“ _What?_ ” cried Mike, his foot almost slipping off the brake pedal in his surprise. “Micky, _what the hell_?”


	2. Chapter Two

“The Monkees? Yeah, you’re on the list.” The guard tucked his clipboard under one arm and raised the wooden barrier keeping the hoi-polloi from polluting the sacred air of show business.

“ _What?_ ” Mike cried again.

 “I said you’re on the list. You’re cleared to go in. Inside. Onto. The. Lot.” The guard spoke slowly and gesticulated broadly. “Four?” he asked, then handed over their passes and some papers at Micky’s enthusiastic nod and thanks.

“No, not _that_ what. _This_ what!” Mike turned to Micky.

“Could ya move along?” The uniformed man indicated the line forming behind them. “Soundstage Nine, like it says and like it’s marked right there on the map. Next!”

Mike had no choice but to drive on, pulling over as soon as he could. “Micky, I want an explanation and I want it now.”

“Fine.” Micky drew in a deep breath, his chest swelling and his eyes bulging wide. “It’s not an acting audition; it’s a band audition except it’s not really, as I’ll explain in a second. See, the show’s for teens, and the youth market means there’s no escaping music these days, so they want to have an actual real act or acts, singers and groups, playing live in the local hang-out where all the _Hollywood Hills High_ characters go in the evenings.”

“The Hot Spot?” Davy queried. “ _Phwoar._ That waitress with the big baps? I bloody well would.”

“Yeah, me too. Well, who wouldn’t, with Twin-Peaks Tina.” Micky, seemingly understanding British slang where breasts were concerned, gave an approximation of the chick’s upper-body anatomy, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“Agreed. Smashing knockers on that bird. Best in the network. Oh wait. Do birds in a coma count?”

“I don’t think they do much, with the coma and all?” Micky deadpanned. “But why?”

“The tits on that chick on life support, in _The Edge of Forever_? Didn’t we say those were the best in that time slot, on all three networks?” Davy reminded him.

“Kids, please!” Mike glared over his shoulder at Davy, then returned his glower to Micky, cutting off the discussion about the attributes of the daughter in _Mackenzie and Daughter_. “Go on? And not about Megan Mackenzie’s…charms?”

“Well, it’d be good money and only like two days’ a week filming if we actually got it, except we _won’t_ get it ’cause these things are cast in advance and this day of auditions is just to get publicity for the show and its stars for season two and advance hype for whatever musicians have gotten this gig. Meaning it’s great band promo for us, with all the magazine and newspaper writers there so we get our names and faces in the press and can talk about our gigs and us. You’re always nag—wanting us to do more profile-raising, try and get work, act as our own PR agents, so this was my contribution to that. And it’ll be fun!” Micky said all in one breath.

“You lied to us!” Mike burst out, his outburst almost drowned out by the other band members saying what a cool idea it was.

“Why didn’t you just tell us, Mick?” Davy inquired from the back seat, peering all around for a big-chested waitress or a coma victim with a massive rack. He leaned forward to see in the driving mirror to comb his hair. And eyebrows. Again.

“Mike’s got some hang-up about studios or movies or agents or something. Ever since a couple weeks ago when we went to Cosmos Studios.” Micky looked at them all.

_When we met a lying, cheating low-life who was using Peter and—_

“Do you, Mike? Why?” Peter’s look said he suspected Mike had had something— _everything_ —to do with Judy from Cosmos Studios never darkening their door again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, no. No, it’s…” He hoped Peter never learned what Judy had really been up to. “Fine.”

It was the best he could do and the smile he gave was the brightest he could muster, even though the mirror showed him it was more of a grimace. “I guess it’s a neat idea. Let’s go have some fun,” he finished, pulling back out into the main area and trying to squash down the heavy feeling rolling through him. He made time to elbow Micky in the ribs. “Oh, and you damn well owe Peter for that box of donuts, you nutjob.”

* * *

“You know, I’ve been in Jeanie’s bedroom many times, but not in real life. And when I’m in here with her, she’s usually here with me. And there’s not usually this many spectators.” Micky gawped over every little detail of the _Hollywood Hills High_ bedroom set they’d been led past but were now in, due to Micky’s dawdling then detouring.

“You still dream of Jeanie, then? I’m team Lulu meself.” Davy nevertheless had a good rubberneck too, even fondling the hallowed bedspread.

“What, you think Lulu and not Jeanie will win Skip? Huh. I’m strictly impartial. May the best gal win and all that.” Peter bent to look at the books in the bookcase, then swung to the record player to examine the LPs. “But if I had to put money on it—”

“We have,” Davy and Micky said together.

“—I think season two’s going to be all about the aftermath of Rico having swept Jeanie off on his Harley sometime over the summer. I mean, all that eye dalliance at the end-of-year prom, over Skip’s shoulder? What was that about if not foreshadowing him swooping in on her, hmm?”

“ _What?_ ” The Monumental TV assistant who was escorting them to their destination stopped dead and paled. “Sir, who told you _that_?”

“You could be on to something, Petey. It’s true Wasp chicks dig bad boys.” Micky nodded. “And you know, I always wondered how he can afford that Harley? Him being from the wrong side of the tracks and all.”

“I reckon we find out in season two.” Davy nudged a drawer shut. Mike hoped he hadn’t stolen any of this Jeanie chick’s underwear. “Bet it’s an arc. Double bet he’s Skip’s father’s love child.”

“Sirs, _please_! You shouldn’t have had access to any of this secret information! I don’t know where you’ve heard or read this, but we may have to debrief you!” The assistant fanned himself.

“Mister, ya ain’t getting your mitts nowhere _near_ my tighty-whities.” Micky clutched his waistband.

“Not without buying him a drink first,” Davy added. “A sweet sherry and you’ll have no trouble. Yeah, I reckon Skip Senior’s been paying maintenance all these years to—”

“ _Shhhh!_ ” The flunky had turned into a hissing snake. “I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to, but we may have to have you sign a secrecy agreement. Until then, I have to ask you not to divulge anything you learned here!” He looked about to faint. “ _All_ of you.” He included Mike in his entreaty.

“What? I have no idea what any of you are talking about!” Mike protested. “I don’t watch that kind of crap.”

“Sir! Please moderate your language! You are in a young lady’s boudoir!” protested the assistant, tears in his eyes, ushering them away.

“And I don’t see why we had to get all _this_ crap.” Mike finished, swiping at the foundation makeup that had been slathered on his face.

“Yeah you do. I told you all about the three-point lighting and not looking like a ghost.” Micky preened as he’d been doing ever since they set foot on the lot, showing off at every opportunity.

“And that kohl and mascara makes your eyes look _devastating_ ,” Peter murmured.

“Oh.” Mike blushed then laughed. He rubbed the back of his hand against Peter’s as they walked. “Least we didn’t need haircuts. Man, that hairdresser! Cutting bits off that dude’s hair and bagging it up to sell!”

“It’s for competition winners. From Rico’s fan club,” corrected the flunky, gritted-teethed, quickening his pace to hustle them past half a classroom and three-quarters of a gym.

“Musta been a heck of a lot of winners,” Mike muttered. He eyed Peter, who was taking it all in. “I didn’t know you were into this sort of thing.”

“As you’ve found out recently, I’m into all sorts of things you might not have thought I would be.” Peter kept his gaze forward, but his eyes gleamed. “I’ll try anything once.”

Mike fought not to trip over his own feet. “Yeah. Found that out.” _The hard way,_ he could have added. Could have but didn’t. He had more pride than to go for cheap and easy puns.

“Yes. I have catholic tastes,” Peter continued.

“Oh yeah? Which direction? Nuns or choirboys?” Davy inquired, over his shoulder.

“Small c, Davy.”

“Don’t start with the short jokes and don’t call him that!” Micky begged Peter.

“That’s it. You are officially cut off.” Mike wondered if Micky had in fact been using something last night. “No more sugar for you, boy,” he vowed.

“’S’okay. He didn’t want a kiss anyway,” Davy commented.

“Yeah, I did.” Micky pouted.

“Sirs, I’m _begging_ you!” yelped the hapless assistant.

Mike knew how he felt. Davy was suspiciously chipper too, although that could have the possible proximity to actresses or models. He resolved not to think the worst. Micky just liked being on a lot. They all knew that.

“Relax, Papa Nez,” Peter muttered.

Peter calling him anything approximating _Daddy_ was weird enough to send a frisson down Mike’s spine. He was glad where their guide showed them into the Hot Spot set.

“It’s smaller than it looks on TV,” Davy observed of the brightly painted, poster-hung diner.

“Yeah and I bet on TV it’s got four walls and a ceiling, unlike here.” Mike fought an eye roll.

“Oh, Tina’s not on shift tonight?” Micky inquired, his face downcast at there being no stacked chick behind the counter. “Only I wanted to ask her about her…specials. When’s she next working?”

“Mick, do we need to have the TV versus real life talk again?” Mike queried, taking the diner’s order pad from Micky’s hands before he could write his phone number down for ‘Tina’.

“And there’s Skip himself!” The frazzled-looking assistant guided them to their booth near the front and pointed to a table close to the podium stage. “With Harry and Wade and newcomer to the show, actress Lindy Lina. Frankie Catalina’s half-sister,” he whispered.

“Not _Catalina_?” Peter asked.

“ _Half_ -sister, Peter. The half being Lina, not Cata,” Micky replied.

“Yeah, she doesn’t want to trade on his full name,” Davy added.

Mike didn’t know how much more he could take. He tried to work out who was there to audition and who were actors or staff or crew.

“Yo, Monkees. Hi, Mike.”

“Yo, Foreign Agents. Hi, J.,” Mike replied to the other group’s blond, brown-eyed lead singer, two tables over. J. was a cool head. Mike flinched at the flash of a camera right in the Monkees’ faces.

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” J. called.

Mike flinched again. Okay, so they’d been at the same try-out a couple weeks ago…and Mike had gotten it on with him after a party back in the early spring. Peter had been away at the time and Mike didn’t think he knew. That being the case, he’d just as soon Peter remained none the wiser now. J. smiled big for the camera that paused at the Foreign Agents’ booth before moving on.

“That’s for _Just Teen_. The write-up’s the reason we’re here. This isn’t a real audition. You know that, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Mike nodded at J. “Justine, you say?” Was that the bossy-looking black-haired chick directing the photographer, her commands competing with those of the production assistants telling those waiting to audition to help themselves to drinks and snacks and sit and enjoy and chat and clap and—

“Smile! _Dream Beat_ ’s _TripleH Special_.”

“The Monkees.” Micky beat a tattoo on the table with his sticks and Davy shook his maracas with an, “’Ello, darlin’,” at the young-looking redhead in front of them, who blushed a fiery pink in response.

“If none of us are getting this gig, who are?” Mike called over to J. J. was almost as big a gossip as Micky and Davy, making having got it on with him a risky judgment call. But, well, loneliness and whiskey were poor advisors, leading to a guy thinking with his little head, rather than the one on his shoulders.

J. jerked his chin at the matching-suits-and-boots duo swaggering down the aisle to a stage-adjacent table.

“Who’re those clowns?” Mike asked.

“The Band of Two. Oh, you know. Their fathers are two of the Band of Brothers, that pack of ancient actors who all make movies and hang out together,” sneered Micky.

“Marco and Tony. Together, the Band of _Who?_ ” Davy quipped at the two dark-haired guys now striking folded-armed back-to-back, then finger-pointing forehead-to-forehead poses for the magazines’ cameras.

“We’re looking forward to being in _Three Aitches_ ,” claimed one, sitting on a chair.

“ _Treble H_ ,” corrected the other, still getting it wrong, standing behind him to rest his chin on the top of his bandmate’s head and his hands on his shoulders.

“We both grew up on movie sets,” the first said.

“But decided to do music instead so we’re not exploiting our family connections,” the second added.

They both tried to sling on guitars and fumbled with them, obviously spending more time posing and learning marketing spiel than practicing their craft.

“Smile, not scowl.” Micky demonstrated a cheesy grin for a sneering Mike. “Hey, did…you really not want this? I know you said I should lay off the background acting work and stay away from agents and studios but…”

Yeah, not being able to explain what had gone down with Judy and her agent boyfriend or husband, for all Mike knew, meant he’d had to keep things vague.

“It’s not that.” He didn’t want Micky to worry and resort to underhanded methods to try to make sense of what was going on. That was Mike’s job. “It’s fine. Really.” He rubbed his foot against Micky’s thin ankle, under the table, and patted his hand where it lay on the top. Mike glanced around, at the technicians on stage testing the sound equipment, and at the people filing in and milling around, getting drinks and snacks and taking their seats.

He tried to see what Peter was looking at behind them. A chick? She sat before Mike could get a good look. All he glimpsed through the crowd was long brunette hair and a slim arm resting on the table. For a second he thought it could be Valerie, Peter’s ex. No. She’d been moved away. So this— A sound guy on stage called out that everything was ready. _Right._ Mike stood and beckoned to the others. “Grab your instruments.” He hefted his guitar and led the way onto the stage.

“We’re the Monkees and we’re on first,” he announced, his glare keeping everyone at bay until the group had plugged in and gone through the quickest sound check ever. Hardly worth doing more, with the Band of Two Idiots smirking down there and the teen mags’ cameras clicking at the stars looking at the stage. J. shot him a wink and the brunette at the back stood on her chair, unless she was freakishly tall. Mike saw long dark hair and a short dark dress.

“Fuck it.” He turned to the others. “We need to rehearse and, while we’re about it, let’s blow the roof off this joint.”

“We can hardly blow the ceiling off.” Davy indicated the lack of one, the space given over to rigging and scaffolding, mainly supporting banks of lights.

“I mean it. Let’s get loud and let’s get obnoxious.” Mike turned the volume and bass knobs up to their maximum and eyed his bandmates.

“ _Mike?_ ” Micky queried.

“You wanted some fun, didn’t you? This is lame, so seems we gotta make our own. Let’s Monkee around. Agreed?”


	3. Chapter Three

That was the only warning Mike gave the group before blasting into _Sweet Young Thing_. He did his usual trick of playing the intro twice to get people paying attention, then ordering the audience up outta their chairs to make some noise, before he went on. The others caught on, of course, their group telepathy and sync making it a breeze.

Their playing turned the song into a shockwave blasting through the painted-set diner, rattling the cups and plates on the tables and making the tables reverberate on the floor. Mike couldn’t have cared less. His attention was on Peter, and in making sure he caught Mike’s extra-loud, “ _Uhhh!_ ” because Peter had told him his voice doing that was _exactly_ how it sounded when—

“ _Bis!_ ”

Mike hadn’t been aware of the audience beyond its initial stunned silence, but now took in the standing, clapping crowd. The minidress-wearing brunette was on her feet, long straight hair flying in her rush to the stage, her enthusiastic applause and cheers provoking a ripple of chain reaction from each table she passed, including the table of soap stars. The room’s roar took Mike aback.

“ _Encore! Bis!_ ” the girl demanded.

“More?” Mike checked he understood.

“ _Oui!_ ” She was near enough for him to see the dots of freckles on her lightly tan face, and her huge brown eyes, with their pale lids, black eyeliner and heavy, doll-like fans of black eyelashes—or what he could glimpse of them with her long bangs in the way. She shoved impatient fingers at the heavy fall of beyond-shoulder-length hair from its uneven off-center parting, flicking a space in her forehead so she could see.

Her enthusiasm sent Mike into his stage patter. “You’re in luck, doll—we’re four great musicians and four great singers too. So here’s Mr. Micky Dolenz to tell you _Let’s Dance On_!”

This classic four-on-the-floor rock-and-roll dance number had the crowd on their feet, everyone bopping, with one camera filming them and one filming the crowd’s reaction. Mike turned his mic for the audience to sing along to the “Hey hey hey hey!” and the girl’s voice could be heard. Mezza-soprano, he thought.

“We were gonna do that song!” whined one of the Band of Two, as the last notes died down.

“Feel free, Dynamic Duo, or whatever you’re called,” Mike sneered. “We ain’t stoppin’ ya none.”

Rousing cheers, handclapping and then a shrill rent the air. The girl had her fingers in her pale-pink-lipsticked mouth, whistling loudly. It started others whistling too and joining in her chant of, “More, more, more!”

“ _Three_ songs?” A clipboard-toting assistant looked confused. “I don’t—”

“I cede my song to they. Them,” cried the brunette. “ _S’il vous plait?_ ”

 _In for a penny…_ And this was a lot more fun than he’d thought it would be. “All the way from swinging Manchester, it’s LA’s prettiest singer, Mr. Davy Jones, telling you _She Hangs Out_!” Mike announced, throwing the brunette a wink, at which she squealed, in true teen-girl style.

This time the audience joined in right away, echoing the opening, “Do the ronde-ronde, do the rond-rond,” and providing the backing repeats, Davy holding the crowd in the palm of his hand. The girl laughed and shimmied for him when he first leaned over the stage. When he sat down on the edge of the platform and held his mic out to her, her “Doo doo-doo doo-doo,” made their exchange almost a duet.

Then the next minute, the brunette was on stage with them. Barefoot, she stood about five-foot-six to Davy’s five-four. She swayed along with him, and her version of his elbows-out shuffle with her added hand-jiving made Davy roar with laughter like a drunk. Peter laughed so much his hand claps and organ notes became random and Micky, craning to see, stuttered on his drum beats. Mike stared. _Woah._

But it went down well, excellently in fact, the rafters ringing and the audience going crazy at the last notes and the final, “La, la la la la la la la la,” that Davy trilled with the newcomer.

“Four singers, you say? He doesn’t sing a song!” the girl called above the applause, pointing at Peter where he stood still chuckling at the keyboard.

“Oh, that’s easily—” Mike’s reply ended in a howl of feedback. He glared at the screech of someone having pulled the plug on them. Hmm. Which one was that, Marco or Tony? They were both arguing that they should be up there, they should have three songs—

“Ya _got_ three songs?” Mike asked.

“That’s not the point! And we don’t wanna go next—the audience will get confused as our act is too similar!”

“I highly doubt that,” Mike scoffed.

“Get a chick up there in between their act and ours,” whined one of the two.

“ _Ah, c’est moi! Je suis une_ chick,” the brunette said. “ _Je m’appelle_ Melodie Mignon.”

“Meen-yon?” Mike tried to puzzle out her surname as the Monkees cleared the stage. Mike wondered what sort of act she did. She seemed able to sing, but did she play an instrument?

“Oh, _wow_. Would you just _look_ at the lines on that little beauty.”

Peter’s tone paid due reverence to the pedal harp that a technician wheeled onto the stage and which Melodie settled into place with easy, casual expertise.

It _just had_ to be a harp, didn’t it, thought Mike, frowning as Melodie put on a pair of Mary Janes an assistant handed her, bending and— _Jesus_ —showing white panties when she fastened the straps. She straightened, looking all around for what had occasioned the wolf-whistles showering the stage.

“Classical music?” he wondered, because the neckline and below-elbow-length sleeves of her plain black dress were modest, but doubting it at the chick’s wide-eyed, childlike poses in front of her instrument for _Justine_ , or whatever the mag was called.

“I think she must be a _yé-yé_ girl.” Peter sounded fascinated. “That French _ingenue_ teenybop-pop stuff?”

“T’ank you.” Melodie settled down to play, tilting the body of the harp between her parted legs and leaning it onto her right shoulder. Embracing it, almost. Mike was glad she sat side-on to the crowd, or those panties would be on full display. “Zis song is called _Mon Cheri et Moi_.”

“ _Me and My Cherry_?” Davy gulped.

“Not _quite_ ,” Peter replied.

“Well, near enough. Genius!” Davy clapped as Melodie pouted and sighed through a light, innocent-sounding song about her cherry or near enough, plucking the strings with the tips of her thumbs and first three fingers. “I’ve not seen such a camp performance this side of a Soho cabaret!”

“Me not since New York. It’s as camp as fuck!”

Mike judged how affected Peter was by his poor grammar and his cursing. He wished he knew what Davy and Peter meant and made a mental note to look the word up. He doubted it had anything to do with canvas tents and cooking over a fire. Melodie slid her thumbs along the strings to make each one ring out, then pulled her thumbs toward her, to come back up.

“Look at her glisses,” sighed Peter.

“I am.” Micky rubbed his hands together.

The sound was smooth, the transitions minimal. Mike closed Peter’s mouth for him. “Oh, her legatos,” Peter whispered.

“Yeah, nice gams on the dame,” Micky agreed.

“ _Merci, mes copains_.” Melodie stood and curtseyed, flashing her panties again. She opened her eyes wide at the requests for more. “Okay. Zis next song, he is called _Bisous et Sucettes_. Hmmm. _Kissing and…Sucking?_ _C’est vrais?_ ” She put the tip of one finger in her mouth, frowning.

 _What the fuck?_ Mike hoped he wasn’t the only one shifting where he stood.

“ _Sucettes_ translates as lollipops. And _bisous_ is a plural noun,” called Peter, hardly able to speak through his laughter.

“ _Ah, oui._ _Kisses and…lollipops_. Thank you for ze teaching, sir. I am in need of your correction.”

And the _ingenue_ sat down again, and as she sang and played a breathy, almost upbeat number, looked over at the four of them. That the light in her eyes and her smile were humorous and warm, inclusive, somehow, rather than knowing or teasing, didn’t stop Mike having to shuffle behind the group when his pants felt too tight.

He was glad that the redheaded writer from _Dream Team_ or _I’m Beat_ or whatever that stupid teen magazine was called tapped them on the shoulders and beckoned them away to a side-room for a sit-down interview, apologizing for being unable to locate the photographer the magazine had assigned for this, although he was around somewhere, and having to take her own photos with a Nikon and light meter. She was starry-eyed thanks to Davy, and swore she’d be at the Box later to catch their set and include it in her piece.

“Nice one,” Mike whispered to Davy. That should bring scouts from record labels down, and maybe even DJs. “C’mon, guys.”

“Let’s hat up?” Micky settled his promotional _HHH_ baseball cap on his curls and followed Mike out.

Mike was glad Peter had the energy to drive, because he didn’t, although he did have a set to perform. “Babe, I’m just about flatlining here. You holding?” he murmured to Pete as they neared the Box.

“Speed? No.” Peter looked around to see exactly where on the Strip they were. “I can… JimJim’s around here.”

“Sure it’s okay?” Mike didn’t know the Strip like Pete did.

Peter nodded. “I’ll meet you inside. Mick, take over?”

The car crawling in traffic, made up of both vehicles and kids thronging the road, he leaped out.

“Don’t _do_ that!” Mike shouted.

Whooping, Micky dashed from the back to the driver’s seat. “This doesn’t count as Chinese fire drill. I’m still holding you to that,” he informed them.

“You would, nutjob.” Mike sat back, needing the rest.

Hefting his and Peter’s guitars into the club a few minutes later brought back their audition—and Melodie. He was glad they hadn’t hung around after, because he had the feeling Peter wouldn’t have exactly been unhappy to see more of her. Well, he’d already seen a lot—as had they all, mainly her white cotton panties. Nope, wouldn’t have been a good idea. She’d gotten Mike going too. _Little tease._ The man occupying Mike’s thoughts—most of ’em, most of the time—returned with the goods and shut the dressing room door with the four of them inside.

“Not Bennies?” The two of them behind the relative shelter of the coat stand, Mike examined the tablets on Peter’s palm.

“Dezies. Desoxyn. Methamphetamine hydrochloride,” Peter explained.

“Well, it’s not like we have brand loyalty,” Mike reasoned.

Peter swallowed a tablet and placed a second on his tongue, Mike understanding why when he pulled Mike in for a kiss, transferring a tablet to him that way. Peter twisted to take up a glass of water, chug some and kiss Mike again, feeding him water so he could swallow the tab. Mike raised an eyebrow. Medical play? Was that even a thing? And if so, something Peter was into? No, wait—it reminded Mike of earlier, him feeding Micky mouth to mouth. Had Peter—

“I just wanted to kiss you.” Peter’s murmur answered Mike’s thoughts.

“Me too. Always, babe. Been too long since this morning,” he whispered in reply, needing Peter as much Peter wanted him and, taking his lips again, swept his tongue deep inside Peter’s mouth.

A hat was removed from a peg at the level of their heads, and a curly mop of hair took its place. “Hey, dibs!” Micky’s demand broke them apart. “On the goods, I mean.”

“’S’no way to talk about Peter,” Davy mock-chided.

“ _Hilarious_ , not. And you two can have a half each.” Interlude over, Mike used his pocket knife to cut a tab in two on top of a sheet of paper on the table. “And that’s not to do with anything except body weight.”

“Physiology, not psychology,” Peter clarified.

“Yeah yeah. Pick on us ’cause I’m skinny and he’s short.” Micky gulped down his half a tab Mike doubted he needed.

“Hey, kiddo.” Mike made sure Micky was looking at him. “Guys, this is Mick’s night, okay? He was right about today. It was a good idea and it was fun.”

Micky breathed on his nails and polished them on his shirt.

“So tonight it’s Micky’s songs. His showcase. His spotlight. Go write your setlist, Mick.”

 _You feel guilty about not spending time with him too_ , Peter’s expression said to Mike, who gave a half-shrug in reply.

“Knock-knock,” announced a female voice at the door a second before it opened and Jo-Ann, the tall blonde waitress came in. “I bring beers and a message from a fan.”

“Miss Jo-Ann.” Mike threw her his lowered-eyelashes, lopsided grin as he crowded close to unload the four bottles and glasses. “Do you just burst into the dressing room in the hopes of catching male performers half-naked?”

“Of course not. Not _just_ male performers,” she flashed back, letting them work it out. “Davy, your gal’s out there. Amy Lane, from the magazine? She’s featuring the club in her article too, which is always good.”

Their set was good too, raucous and catchy, fast and loud now the chemicals had kicked in. Micky singing lead on everything, starting with the nonsense song they’d all written and called their theme tune. We should open with it more, Mike thought. He loved the different repeated guitar riffs and the increase in volume and frenzy leading to Micky’s scream. 

It led well into _Clarksville_ , which had everyone on the floor. By the third number, _Saturday’s Child_ , Mike spied a brunette through the crowd, sitting at a far table, and his heart thudded when he thought again it was Valerie, then double-thudded when he realized it was the chick from earlier.

Davy saw her during the fade out to _Take a Giant Step_ and nudged Mike. Peter noticed her when he was holding the organ notes during the instrumental break in _Stepping Stone_ , accompanying Micky’s furious tom-tom beat. He waved. She waved back. If she had danced at all, she was visible back at her table when the audience thinned a little after their encore, _I’m a Believer_.

Decoying the other three to the writer chick, Mike slipped through the club. He’d better go see. This chick could be another Toby or Amanda or Jo-Ann, casting her net wide in the group. Getting tangled up with Davy had neutralized Toby, making her off-limits to the others, a friend-ex, the fifth Monkee, they called her. Equally, Mike’s…special attention to Amanda and Jo-Ann channelled their interest to him, kept them dangling, turned into female friends who flirted with him. He resolutely didn’t analyse this or how he felt about it, but, pasting on a cool smirk, prepared to do it again.

Melodie didn’t hear him approaching. Well, she wouldn’t, the way she was chatting to her friends— Mike stumbled, catching her now much improved English. His eyes narrowed at the glimpse of her clothes. Not a too-short dress and little-girl shoes, but the capri pants and sleeveless cotton top and flat footwear all the chicks wore. She looked up at him, her face free of the childlike freckles and bearing no doll-like fans of eyelashes or pale lipstick, her long bangs shoved roughly away from her face.

“Hi!” she said as he stood tall at her table. Said…with no trace of a foreign accent.

Caution and mistrust cooled the blood in Mike’s veins. So, not like Toby or Amanda or Jo-Ann. This dissembling and duplicity? It reminded him of Judy, and the memory of her treatment of Peter turned Mike to ice. This time, he’d tackle it—her—head-on, be the one in control…and make sure she knew it, right from the off.

“So, no longer French?” he challenged, all guns blazing.


	4. Chapter Four

“French? Of course not. And my name’s not Melodie either. That’s my stage act,” she replied.

“Wut?” Mike cursed the stupid syllable the second it left his lips.

“Oh.” She blinked. “You mean you’re really a Texan? It’s not just your gimmick?”

“Oh, I’m from south o’the line all right.” Mike hooked his thumbs into his belt, leaning back a little. “Born’n’bred.”

 “I see… Hey, wasn’t it a gasser, on the lot earlier?” She laughed, making Mike swing from Judy to Toby/Amanda thinking so quickly he felt dizzy.

“Erm…” She looked up at him as he still stood there, glanced at her friends, then back at him. “Would you…like to dance?”

“He’s from _Texas_!” the other guy at the table hissed to her, adding, “You played a boss set, man,” to Mike, who gave a head-jerk acknowledgment of the praise. “You okay if…” he asked the girl, who nodded and Mike moved off a little for her chuckling friends to hit the floor.

“Meaning?” Not-Melodie queried.

“Meaning if there’s any dancin’ to be done, it’ll be me asking the little lady to cut a rug, ya dig?” Mike explained.

 “So…would you…like to ask me to dance?” Not-Melodie tried again, fiddling with her hair.

Mike smiled, slowly, unhooking his thumbs and tilting a hip. “May I?” On her nod, he twirled a chair around from another table, spinning it close to her and sat, resting one leg horizontally over the knee of the other, showing off the soft moccasin boots that reached nearly to his knees. He leaned back, making her lean in to hear and be heard.

“Would…you like a drink?” the girl tried. “You earned one, with that great set. You guys groove! And please don’t say being a Texan means you can’t let a woman buy you a drink.”

“Oh, I’ll happily accept, if I can buy you one after, ma’am.”

“Grace. My name? Not ma’am or little lady or doll, ya dig?”

She’d listed all the names he’d used for her and attempted a mimic of his accent. “Mike. Pleased to meet you.” He shook her hand, finding it small, but strong, in his. “Haven’t seen you in here before.” _Or on the Strip._

“I can’t imagine why—I got into town four days ago! So, Mike, and Davy and Micky, you said earlier? Davy’s English? Or is that his stage persona?”

 _Good memory._ He accepted the congratulations of another small group of club goers and beckoned the waitress over. Not Jo-Ann, some assistant she’d hired now she was bar manager. Which didn’t mean she wouldn’t know exactly what was going on, of course. Grace requested the same again. “Make that two,” Mike ordered. “Yeah, he’s English. One-man British invasion. And Micky’s local.”

“And the one who didn’t get to sing? An American who speaks French?” Her eyes sparkled.

“Peter.” Yeah, he’d been counting down until she asked about him. “Played bass here and organ, right? He plays a ton more instruments too, and sings and writes songs.” Would he ever be able to talk about Peter without that ring of pride in his voice? “So tell me about you and your act, although I don’t think you were acting playing the harp.” He uncrossed his leg and leaned in a little, keeping his drawl low and intimate. Her choice to move away…or not.

She nodded, sitting straight upright. “No, true. I’ve played for years. Oh God. Well, our French teacher at school always played us Édith Piaf records, and we’d imitate her, you know? Exaggerating the _chanson_ voice and gestures? Then in June I went to live in Greenwich Village—”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I hung out at _Les Copains_ , a sort of Paris-themed café place, with all these posters and magazines, and _discs_ you could put on. I got really into it and developed the Melodie Mignon, Melodie Little-and-Cute, character!”

Mike wished he’d ordered a different drink—whatever she was drinking smelled sickly-sweet when the server placed it down, and would taste worse. He watched her count out money and a tip. Character? Like, acting? So she was an actress? Maybe she’d tried the theater in New York? He leaned back, for her to move with him, close the gap. “What brought you to NY and now LA?”

“I was working there for June. Nothing much, but it brought me to the city.”

“Go on?” Mike prompted when she hesitated and shrugged.

“Oh, I met kindred spirits, and crashed at their apartment, in the Village. Just a few rooms above a café, a basket place, one of a few where I sang and played, alone or with a friend. Folk stuff and—”

“Folk music in Greenwich Village basket houses? You’re speaking my language, and I don’t mean French, _mademoiselle_ ,” came in a deep baritone from above and behind them, and a warm hand descended on Mike’s shoulder.

“Peter.” Mike span another chair from a neighboring table for him, on his left, keeping himself next to the girl. “This is Grace, from earlier?” As if Peter wouldn’t recall the harpist in the white cotton panties.

Peter put his bottle of beer down and leaned across Mike to shake hands.

“You guys wail!” Grace exclaimed. “The set earlier was a ball, and this was so cool!”

“Thanks.” Peter ducked his head. He tended to, in the face of praise. Mike didn’t get why. “You must play piano, right? Some keyboards or other?”

She nodded. “And harpsichord. Well, I _learned_ …”

Mike blinked. How did Peter know that?

“Nothing like that, obviously,” Grace continued, pointing at the now-empty stage, where they’d played.  “You play _tight_.”

“Thanks. Which basket house place did you live above?” Peter asked. “I came from the Village scene.”

“The Silver Moon. It’s quite new. Just near Oranges and Lemons? I played there too.”

“Oh wow, man, me too! I know it well although I haven’t been there in over a year. Ernie still running it? Or has he finally gone to follow his dream—”

“And move to the Caribbean? Nope, still there, still dreaming!”

Mike sat back a little, listening to the do-you-know, did-you-go talk of places with wild names like the Panda, the North Wind, and people called stuff like Crazy Lane and Old Sandy. Peter reminisced about his banjo-playing days, with Grace claiming to want to hear him; she’d always wanted to learn the banjo, just as Peter wanted to play harp, and she was describing her folk singing duo.

“So with me being Grace and his last name being Faber… You can see where this is going…”

“Grace and Faber?” Peter laughed.

“You know how you think something’s hilarious…and it might not be?” Grace finished her drink. “The girl whose sofa I was sleeping on studies at the Institute of Technology, part of SUNY, and I got fascinated with various design techniques she was practicing, so we created all these fake album covers and she actually made them! All puns on Grace. Like, me hanging off the Welfare Island Bridge and a big hand coming into the picture—”

“ _Saving Grace_?” Peter guessed.

“Yeah, and one with a huge calendar on the wall behind me with the day circled in red and me doubled over clutching my stomach…”

Peter laughed at that, but Mike didn’t get it. It sounded fun, in its own way, though. They’d done similar things…as Peter was now describing.

“Amazing!” Grace laughed.

“Grace,” added Peter, making her laugh more.

“Tell me more about the group?” she asked. “You’re the house band here, right?”

“One of them. My favorite though,” Jo-Ann interrupted, leaning over the table to adjust Mike’s wool hat for him.

“You got the best touch, Jo-Ann.” Mike ran his gaze from her cleavage, on a level with his eyes, to her face.

“No complaints so far… Message from Lola.” Officially the DJ, on her platform above the floor, the tiny chick ran the place. “Can you get the Warm Embrace out of her office.”

“Huh?” Mike didn’t get it: the group should be on stage soon.

“The Warm Embrace can’t get into the dressing room,” Jo-Ann continued, collecting the empties.

“Because…” Peter queried.

“Davy.”

“Still huh,” Mike answered.

“Can you make Davy vacate the room.”

“What, he still looking in the mirror?”

“No. He’s not alone.” Jo-Ann made a face. “Let me put it this way. There’s a teen mag photographer looking for his lady feature writer?”

“Oh, no worries. He’ll be out any second.” Micky squeezed past Jo-Ann and sat at their table. “I mean, he’s been in there, what, five minutes? So won’t be much longer.”

“Mick!” Mike yelped. “Ladies present.”

“And don’t mock the afflicted. In public. Gossip about them in private. Later. With me and Leah.” Jo-Ann tousled Micky’s curls and promised him a free beer.

Then it was everyone talking at once, louder and quicker with the speed, Micky recognizing “Melodie”, Peter introducing Grace, Grace congratulating Micky on his singing and drumming, her friends returning and joining in, other people coming up to talk, Grace filling them in on the other _HHH_ auditions after they’d left. Micky came to crouch by Mike.

“That teen magazine photographer yonder…notice anything about him? Remember he was nowhere to be found earlier when he shoulda been shooting us?”

Mike peered over at the guy. “Well, his hair’s dyed blond and he’s blinking like he needs glasses, but yeah, he does look— Say, Jo-Ann? You know the name of that chick’s photographer?”

“ _Ro-bair_ , he said.” Jo-Ann slid Micky’s beer across to him, winking and saying his fake ID checked out. “I guess it’s fancy for Robert?”

Micky pulled Mike to his feet and they eyed each other, squinted over at the guy trying to avoid them, then looked at each other again. “ _Rob Roy Fingerhead?_ ” they mouthed in unison. “Oh, how the mighty are fallen,” Mike lamented.

“Yeah, all the way to _Dream Beat_ , and its teen screams,” Micky added. “He must…really hate it!” He couldn’t speak for laughing, making Mike laugh too.

“How do, chaps. I missed anything?” Davy joined them.

“A new record!” screamed Micky, collapsing on the floor.

After that it was complete chaos, relative silence only descending when the next group, the headliners The Warm Embrace, in the second week of their residency, were announced.

“I love that San Francisco sound,” Grace applauded. “Interesting when they’re from London, right?”

“It’s not that clear-cut,” Peter replied. “In that they are, but there’s more than one London, dig?”

Mike narrowed his eyes at the podium. Even by the Embrace’s standards, their entrance tonight was shambolic, with at least one member missing, one going to find him, then the lead singer going to fetch them both.

“So much for the unit of oneness,” sighed Micky. “Although they do look kinda similar?”

Yeah, their eyes are all saucer-shaped and sized, Mike thought, squeezing Peter’s knee under the table. Grace stared rapt at the stage as the set began—seemed she dug music, but then why all the theater and persona stuff? There was more to her story.

The song started to dissolve when the keyboardist stopped playing and began yelping. The others carried on, the drummer for the longest, until he stuttered to a stop, his beats drowned out by shouts of, “I can’t play that keyboard— it’s _melting_ , man! What if I meld with it? While that seems a groovy idea, I have sooo many questions…”

“Erm…” The singer addressed the crowd, his Canadian tones filling the club. “Seems Trip’s…a little unwell, eh.” He watched the Midwesterner stumble shaking from the stage, wrapped in a fire blanket and blowing on his fingers. “Is there anyone here who knows how to play the organ? And knows _Fields of Summer_ , oh, and _Soul Star_?”

Mike closed his eyes and shook his head, but that didn’t stop Peter from dashing to the podium. They’d jammed a little with the Embrace, and Peter could pick up any tune. On stage Peter tried a scale on the keys, then blew on his fingers. “ _Hot!_ ” he mouthed over at Mike, who found himself at the front of the stage, not noticing he’d made his way there.

“ _You are_ ,” he mouthed back. Seeing Peter on keyboards reminded him again of Grace, of how she’d mentioned playing them. He cast a look back to see her, eyes on the stage, but chatting to Micky and Davy. _Hmm._ He headed back. “Hey, Grace. I owe you a drink.” He jerked his chin at the bar and once there, hooked his elbows on the bar’s wooden top and leaned back against it. She stood in the corner, her back to the wall.

“So what’s a Texan doing in LA?” she stole a march on him by asking.

He grinned. “I came for the music scene. And you?”

“I wanted a summer at the beach. I’m living out at Venice, in one of those old beachside bungalows. Tricia, there, is one of my roommates. Spent Sunday getting to know the area, heard about the audition, lost a bet so tried out, wanted to come to the Strip, and here I am.”

“Wait. Lost a bet?”

“God. Well, a dare, I guess? They betted me I wouldn’t dare go audition as Melodie! Their ante was I wouldn’t have to cook, shop or clean for a week. My other roommate went with me to make sure I did it. And to take pictures.” Rolling her eyes, she took a huge slug of beer. “So I really ramped it up. Like you four did!”

“Oh.” It _sounded_ genuine.

“Oh, talking of…” Grace checked her watch. “They said to call late tonight, didn’t they, see if we made the cut? For the Hot Spot act, in _HHH_ , as they need to get moving with it?”

“But…” Didn’t she know that the crap today was all PR, that the group was already chosen?

“I have to take it seriously from beginning to end, as part of the bet. Do you know where the phone is?”

“Out through there,” Micky answered for Mike, sidling up with Davy. “But I’m here, no need to call me at home. But I’ll give you my number. Oh, you’re good, lady!” He wagged a finger at her.

He swept her away and Mike thought he’d better follow, pulling Davy with him and trying to signal to Peter where they were going. And by the time they got into the corridor, Grace was speaking on the phone.

“I’m with the Monkees, actually,” she said into the mouthpiece, whispering to them this would save them calling too. She pressed the button for them all to hear the voice on the other end. “So, any news for any of us?”

Micky looked wide-eyed at Mike, who shrugged. Seemed Grace was kinda naïve, and she’d learn the hard way that here in La-La Land, things people in the business said, like—

“Yeah, you’re both being considered,” announced a male voice. “You’re our first choice, in fact and we’d like to see both of you again first thing tomorrow.”

“The fuck?” exclaimed Mike. “Micky? You said—”

But his words were lost in the exclamations and cheers of the others…including Grace.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the warning says, literal peeing contest. Also slight sexual fantasy about slightly dubious consent.

“No.”

“But—”

“Mick, I said _no_!” He slammed on the Monkeemobile’s brakes with a hard stamp of his foot to underscore his final word. Yeah, he shouldn’t have driven them back, the state he was in, adrenaline…and other things coursing through him, but too late now. Micky’s slammed door rocked the vehicle.

“Michael.”

He didn’t want to turn to face Peter, to see again the sunny beam he’d smiled when he’d joined them to hear the news. Didn’t want to hear Peter urge him to agree to return for round two of auditions, or whatever the fuck was on the cards for tomorrow—later, actually. But turn he did, to see Peter serene and composed.

“Chill,” Peter counselled.

“I’m trying,” he managed, still tasting that sickly-sweet drink he’d had back at the Box. It coated his mouth and throat.

“I’m with you,” Peter murmured.

“Why can’t we put it to the vote, huh?” Micky stood near the pad folded-armed, blocking Mike’s path from the car. “I thought this was a democracy.”

“No point.” Davy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “It’ll be tied.”

“I’m neutral, as I said.” Peter stood shoulder to shoulder with Mike. “And I’ll vote with Mike.”

 _Oh._ Mike swallowed, the thick-syrup taste thinning.

“Is that how it’s gonna be from now on?” Micky’s lips thinned as he looked from him and Davy to Mike and Peter.

“I don’t know, Micky. In cases like these, probably.” Peter rubbed a hand down Micky’s arm.

“Well, that’s not _fair_!” Micky stamped a foot.

“Mick,” Mike drawled. “Is it really worth fighting me over this?” He went to go in, but Micky entered at the same time, and they jammed in the doorway. Mike turned to face him. “ _Really?_ You’re actually gonna fight me?”

Micky leaned in, until they were eye to eye, then nose to snub nose. When he replied, his breath feathered over Mike’s lips. “ _Yes._ ”

 _Jesus._ Mike was horrified to find it arousing. “Fine. Monkee challenge it is, then. Challenger chooses the heats.”

Micky’s war whoops nearly deafened him. A second later, dressed in a toga, a garland threaded through his curls, he cried, “Let the games begin!” as the stuffed lion’s head on the wall was briefly a whole, live king of the jungle roaring and pawing at his victims in an arena.

“Is this wise?” Peter queried.

“Eh, he’s just feeling his balls,” Mike reasoned, glad Mick’d only had half a doll. “As we say in Texas.”

“His oats, in every other state.” Peter stopped them when they found themselves down on the sands a few minutes later, clad in swim shorts. “We can’t just rush into the water.”

“Well, d’uh!” came Micky’s voice, from where its owner was a vague shape in the moonlit darkness. “Which is why—” The tall bamboo stick he’d jammed into the sand came alight at the top, illuminating him. “Which is— _Davy!_ ” he yelled into the distance.

“Keep your frizzy hair on! I can’t bloody reach. I’m jumping up…” A _thump_ and another standing wooden torch flared alight a dozen feet or so away, showing Davy fallen on his back on the sand.

“Why we’re warming up…with LeapMonkee!” Micky shouted.

“There and back again?” Mike queried, pointing, to receive a nod. He smirked at Peter. Oh, they _so_ had this. One of their quartet was a little disadvantaged when it came to leaping over a much taller bandmember’s back, just as said taller bandmate couldn’t easily bend his long skinny legs down far enough to facilitate said smaller fourth member’s leaping…

Just as Mike was handicapped in the next heat by not being such a strong swimmer as the others. Or knowing where the damn buoy was that he was supposed to be touching before returning. By the time he’d found it in the inky dark and splashed his way back to shore, he was a long time and a long way down the beach from the others, thankful for the lit torches, where he met the derision of the Monkee challenge organizer.

“Hey, I didn’t grow up near the ocean, man!” he defended himself, glaring at Micky.

“Neither did Davy or Peter,” Micky crowed.

Davy threw him his shorts and jacket. “Yeah. I used to have to practice swimming over a wooden box!”

“Well, I was never used to currents, what with learning in our pool—” Peter barely ducked the wet towel hurled at him. “Draw?” he asked Micky.

“Please?” Davy huddled near the torch, trying to warm his hands. “You two must have finished your pissing contest by now and… What?”

“A pissing contest!” Mike and Micky said at the same time. They turned from each other to peer up at the pad’s sundeck.

Davy shivered. “Well, I suppose we should be glad they’re not tossing for it.”

“Wouldn’t throwing a coin be better?” Peter queried.

“Peter.” Davy shook his head at Peter’s naivety. “I didn’t mean that sort of tossing.”

“He who spritzes farther, wins!” cried Micky, scampering off. “You two stay below to judge!”

 “Age before beauty.” Both of them standing flush against the sundeck rail seconds later, Micky gestured at Mike to go first.

“Pearls before swine, you mean.” Mike loosened the drawstring on his shorts.

“Look out below!” called Micky.

“ _Jesus!_ ” came up from the sand as Mike sprayed far.

“Mike, really?” called Peter.

“How’s it looking?” he answered.

“You really want me to answer?” Peter replied.

“Me now. Stand well back. I drank _a gallon_ of soda earlier, and you know when I start, I can’t stop,” Micky warned them, the concentration and strain on his face shown in the light from the den behind him. “Here comes Firehose Dolenz!”

“You wish,” scoffed Davy, then yelped and cursed. Mike could guess why.

Micky’s grunting and groaning brought the preposterousness and inanity of it home to Mike. Ashamed, he belatedly recalled that a side effect of the chemicals crashing around in their systems was impaired judgment. “Mick, stop. You win.” He shook his head. “You’re right. We should go see what the deal is. I was wrong.”

“ _Outta sight!_ ” Micky’s sudden bearhug had Mike crashing back into the wall behind him.

“Micky, Mick, Micky.” Mike winced. “I can’t help wishing you’d finished and zipped up there, good buddy.”

Inside, Micky howled around the pad, triumph turning him into King Werewolf.

“Don’t worry.” Peter caught Mike’s eye. “I’ve got something herbal to calm things down…”

A half-hour later, he and Mike had tossed blankets over the sleeping Davy and Micky on the couch and floor, respectively, and headed up to bed, where Peter soon finished in the bathroom.

“Nice.” He indicated Mike reclining by scented candlelight, bare-chested, arms folded behind his head.

“Hot,” Mike started to say, of a boxer-shorts-clad Peter, but the word was lost as Peter came to lie on top of him and, with a deep hum of satisfaction, took Mike’s face in his hands and first rubbed the tip of his nose against Mike’s, then kissed him, long and deep, the silky strands of his hair falling across Mike’s eyes and cheeks. It was intoxicating, being surrounded by Peter, the salt-sand note to his scent stronger now after his swim.

Peter finished by sucking on Mike’s bottom lip and trapping it beneath his teeth to administer a not-that-gentle pull. When Mike flicked out his tongue to soothe away the sting, Peter was there, his tongue tip arrowed to circle Mike’s before he flicked then stroked along the top of Mike’s tongue, gaining entrance to Mike’s mouth again.

“Ohhh.” Mike’s sound of pleasure was louder than Peter’s had been. “You just have to make a liar of me, don’t’cha, shotgun?”

“What?”

“Just, every day, I swear you can’t get any hotter, and every day, you do. Every time…” He broke off when Peter began rubbing his crotch in a slow circle on Mike’s, the almost-leisurely, half-sweet, half-sensual movement building Mike’s arousal, physical and mental, almost without him noticing it, until he was rock-hard and his nerves thrumming.

Peter raised his head a little, assessing. “Levelled out now?”

“Yeah. Except for one part of me that’s not level with the rest.” Mike rubbed back. He freed his hands to clasp Peter’s ass cheeks and press Peter more firmly into him. Rubbing against Peter’s erect cock through their layers of thin cotton pj pants and boxers added to the languorous pace.

“I’m too heavy,” Peter said against Mike’s lips, kissing him again.

“I like it.” He did. Liked Peter’s weight on him, grounding him. Huh, and people thought Peter needed someone to anchor him. Well, maybe he did, but Mike did too. _Peter._ He needed this too, this, unforced, unhurried heat they so easily kindled into flame between them. “What you up for?” he murmured.

“Hm?” Peter planted his elbows just above Mike’s shoulders and folded his arms across his chest to play with his pelt.

“Wanna fuck me? Suck me? Wanna get some? Get head?” Peter had started; his choice.

Peter slid off and to one side, pressing close. “Not sure. Play with me? And I don’t mean LeapMonkee.” He snickered. “A pissing contest! _God_ , Michael!” Shaking with laughter, he pressed his face into Mike’s neck. When he pulled away, strands of his hair caught in Mike’s stubble, thickening the haze of his arousal.

“I fucken love being in bed with you,” Mike confessed. All the time they’d lived in this house but not been together like this beat at him. “I wish we’d gotten together sooner.”

“We weren’t ready.” On his side, facing Mike, Peter pressed his crotch into Mike’s hip. “I am now though.”

“Nah. Not nearly enough.” Mike rolled onto his side to mirror Peter’s position, and Peter’s indrawn breath told Mike Peter knew what was coming. Mike snaked out a hand to play with Peter as requested, but this was a bad angle for slipping a hand down Peter’s pants, or in this case shorts, as Mike loved to do. He tried sliding his hand up one leg of Peter’s boxers, but that wasn’t much better. “Be easier with a chick in a miniskirt,” he mused. “I could just slide right up…”

“Oh? And if she was wearing panties?”

“Push ’em aside.” Here and now, he had to settle for pulling Peter’s shorts off, to grasp his erect cock. “And just like you, chicks these days don’t hardly bother with underwear.”

The twist to Peter’s mouth flexed the mole above his lip. “Should I be insulted that you’re thinking about a chick? Did you forget you’re in bed with me?”

Mike arched an eyebrow. “Did you forget I got your dick in my hand?”

“No,” came on a gasp as Mike squeezed, and worked the foreskin to reveal the head of Peter’s cock. Peter gave a wriggle. “Go on?

“I am— Oh.” Yeah, Peter loved Mike’s voice during sex, both its tone and the things he said. “I like fingering chicks. Seeing how quick I can get them wet, get them horny. Without just going straight for their clit, you know? That’s, like, cheating.” Peter’s eyes were darkening already. “Yeah, stroking their petals, so when you do touch that button, they go crazy. Come really hard. Come back for more too.”

He loved the little noise Peter made, and tightened his grip on him, rubbing his thumb against that extra sensitive spot just under the head, wanting to see how quickly he got beads of pre-cum bubbling at the slit.

“Something that’s a whole groove is when a chick sleeps over, touching her first thing in the morning, getting her ready for you, so it’s like a dream she’s having? I love making a chick moan in her sleep, getting her all juiced up. And if you’re really good…” And there it was, that tiny bubble glistening for him. Mike stroked a hard thumb over the head of Peter’s dick, coaxing forth more liquid. He brought his sheened thumb to his lips, but before he could take it in, Peter swopped close to suck it into his mouth, tasting himself and tonguing Mike, looking deep into his eyes as he suckled. He made Mike shiver.

“You horny little slut,” Mike whispered, forcing his thumb deeper down Peter’s throat and cradling his cheek with his other four fingers. “Always so fucken eager for me. So hot to trot.” Making Peter moan around his thumb felt heady and the nip Peter gave to the webbing of Mike’s thumb and forefinger made Mike’s cock twitch. He slid his hand free, to continue working Pete, jacking him slowly, root to tip.

“If you’re really skilled…” Mike resumed, “you can get them moaning and gasping, starting to come, and if you don’t want them riding your hand to the finish, you can just slide into them and the ripples of their climax’ll bring you off, let you ride the wave. It’s such a scene.”

Peter’s eyes were a dark velvet brown now. “You do that to me. Start on me when I’m asleep.”

“Yeah,” Mike admitted. “It’s kind of harder to just slide into a guy though.” He took Peter’s hand, wanting Peter to take over, bring himself off. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Peter get himself off in front of him. But Peter curled his fingers around Mike’s dick instead, copying Mike’s strokes. _Fine._

“Tell me a fantasy,” Mike whispered, the substances in his blood making him loose-tongued and mellow. “You know mine. You’re chained to the bed by one ankle, naked, and using that hot mouth of yours on me, bringing me to the brink and keeping me there until I tell you to finish me.”

“I know,” moaned Peter.

“Tell me?” Mike twisted his hand, stroking harder.

“Something I love thinking about is you bending me over the hood of the car, ripping my pants down, then screwing my brains out,” Peter murmured, working his curled fist hard and fast on Mike.

“What? I didn’t!”

“Yet.” Peter’s smile was devilish, far removed from his dimpled beam. “What do you like thinking about?”

“Your first time.” Mike’s answer came swift and true. “’Cause tapping that virgin ass? _Je-sus._ I never felt anything like it.”

“I didn’t know anything could be that hard and brutal,” Peter confessed.

“And you loved it.”

Peter huffed out half a laugh. “Yeah. It was a trip. Yeah, I dug it with a gold shovel. You…like popping cherries? I feel I wasn’t your first.”

“Kinda, yeah. And no. The third.” Mike hissed at Peter’s sudden increase in pace and force. “A chick and two guys.”

Peter slowed. “ _Please_ tell me Micky wasn’t the other one.”

“ _What?_ Babe, I thought that was you!” They’d both stopped now, clinging to each other and shaking with laughter. “Nah, couldn’t be, of course.”

“Why?”

“What? Way that big baby carries on when he gets a boo-boo? A dick your size claiming his ass? He’d have screamed the goddamn place down!”

It should have been funny, but the look in Peter’s eye and the way he shifted told Mike Peter was reacting to the thought, to the image, in the same way he was…

“I think…” Peter moved, giving himself room to grip Mike’s cock again. “…we’d better change the subject. Literally.” He claimed Mike’s lips, forcing deep kisses on him as he jacked him, moaning into Mike’s mouth as Mike worked him in turn.

“Monkeechallenge race t’finish,” Peter stuttered out, and they both ended heaving, shaking wrecks, fighting their laughter as they came hard and together.

After, lying replete, Peter snuffled out a giggle. “Cherry—good thing we weren’t thinking about Grace, during… Be awkward, have to see her tomorrow.”

Yeah, Mike wasn’t thrilled about that, or that Peter was thinking about her now. Still, despite the skittish way she’d reacted earlier, she looked set to become a Monkee-girl, group friend, and more’n probably dangling after him. But like a chill wind, something she’d said, or rather _hadn’t said_ , suddenly made his flesh pebble. _Shit._ He’d dropped his guard, treated her like an Amanda, when she was a Judy? He’d investigate. _Tomorrow._

 


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just silly.

“You know, they say a day that starts off with you screaming in fright is not a good day?” Micky enquired of Mike the next morning.

“And what do ‘they’ say about a day that starts off with finding you in bed with them?” thundered Mike, still clutching his heart after the medium Monkee scare he’d gotten, and his throat after the, yeah, high-pitched yelp he’d emitted. “I thought a dog must’ve got into the pad, man!” And in stretching a sleepy hand out to the foot of the bed to ascertain, he’d touched a non-canine, very-human hand and leg…and reacted.

“Well, there was no need to scream again, louder, when you saw it was me.” Micky pouted.

“Ya think?” Mike indicated Micky, sitting at the foot of the bed, shirtless, fuzzy-haired, cross-legged like some sort of faun or wood elf.

“And I’m not _in_ bed. I’m on it.”

“Don’t start with me before I’ve had coffee, kid,” Mike warned. Then the actual here, now, who and where of the situation hit him. “And Mick, fuck’s _sake_ , man! You can’t just barge in here! We coulda been…” He rejected most of the verbs that came to mind and settled for, “Busy.”

“Oh, you weren’t. I listened at the door first.”

“Don’t go listening at the _door_ , pervert!” Mike sat, tucking the sheet around him, and looked for something to put on, but couldn’t locate his pjs. It felt weird to be naked in front of Micky…after last night and the, well, sexual fantasy he and Peter had—

“So, I should just come in? You’re sending out mixed signals here, Mikey.”

“Wasn’t the door locked?” Mike worried Micky had found a way to open it even so. Had invented some gadget, out there in the garage-workshop.

“No…” Micky smirked, giving nothing away.

Mike squinted at him. “You naked?”

Micky regarded him, head on one side. “You know you ask me that at least twice a week?” He lifted the tray covering his lap. “I got shorts on.”

“Peter’s shorts.” Mike knew those worn denim ex-jeans well. He’d spent months eyeballing Pete’s rear end in them.

“Shorts.” Micky’s tone was firm.

Yeah, their clothes tended to be communal. But these would hang off Mick’s flat behind. “Peter, wake up and help me.” Mike brushed his hand down Peter’s warm back and made sure the sheet hid his gorgeous ass, right up to the dimples.

“I am awake. I’m just letting you deal with this.” Peter nevertheless rolled over to face Mike. He dropped a quick kiss on his stomach, making the muscles quiver, and caught his eye. Peter was flushed. Mike thought he probably was too, and hoped Mick, if he noticed, would put it down to the morning sun, or the heat of the bedclothes, rather than the residual embarrassment he and Peter were experiencing at facing Micky so soon after the images of him they’d—

“Never taking that brand again,” Mike muttered.

“Or that combo.” Peter sat in a cross-legged pose, in one easy, smooth movement.

“I brought you breakfast,” Micky sing-songed, gesturing to the tray on his lap before lifting the domed food cover to reveal a plate and a mug.

“Only one cup and plate?” Mike pointed from himself to Peter then Mick.

Micky shrugged. “Not my turn to wash the dishes.”

Peter gave up looking for his boxer shorts. He swiped the mug and took a huge swallow, passing the cup to Mike after. He tilted the plate toward them, staring at its colourful contents. “Froot Loops? With no milk?”

“Yeah, and don’t eat the red ones. They’re my favorite,” Micky ordered.

“They’re all the same flavor!” yelped Mike, taking up the baton of their two-year-long argument. “And…a slice of leftover pizza?”

“ _Bald_ pizza?” Peter inspected it.

“You’re, like, vegetarian, right? So I ate all the pepperoni and bacon off of it for you.” Micky had the grace to look slightly ashamed.

“And the cheese and the sauce. Thanks?” Peter nibbled the end of the limp slice of triangular bread and held it out to Mike. “So what’s turned you into LA’s most idiosyncratic cook and butler?”

“Wanted us all up and about early! Gotta get to Monumental Studios!” Micky peered at Mike. “What? You said I won, that we—”

“Yeah. But I kinda hoped you’d oversleep and we’d miss the appointment. Or that you’d forget, in the light of day,” Mike confessed.

“Oh, come on!”

“We’re just going to see, okay? I ain’t making no promises,” Mike warned him. It was enough for Micky, sending him leaping from the bed and room and sliding down the spiral staircase where a distant _thump_ and fluent English cursing suggested Davy had provided a soft landing for him. Mike located their clothes—Micky had been sitting on top of them. “Jeez. Wish his battery would run down.”

He was still wishing it a half-hour later, on the drive along Sunset. “Tell me again why this is a good idea? Why I agreed?” he moaned to Peter, next to him in the passenger seat. “Agreed to go see about a job I got no intention of us taking?”

 _Because you’re still indulging him. Both of them, actually_ , said Peter’s mild glance over at Mike, his eye-flicker to their backseat passengers making the subjects of his sentence clear.

“Oh yeah. And on that topic…” Mike bade his time until he spotted what he needed at a stop light. He nodded at Peter and caught Davy’s eye in the rear-view mirror. “Micky, you ready? For…Chinese fire drill!” He sprang from the car to run around it, the other two following quickly, and Micky scrambled out, right at the feet of the tall, slim blonde Mike had seen exiting a store. Right over the feet, in fact: in drooling open-mouthed over her, Micky tripped and fell flat.

“Ooh!” Jumping back in the car at the same time as Davy, and spying through the window, Peter winced. “Bet that hurt.”

“Oh, I think Blondie there’ll make it all better,” Mike judged, back in, his eyes on the lights. As soon as there came a hint of green, he pressed down hard on the accelerator and sped off.

“Daft bugger.” Davy leaned out of the back and waved at the stranded Micky. “I don’t know why he always wants to play this game—he’s never made it back to the car once yet, has he?”

“Not when Mike’s driving, no.” Peter furrowed his brow. “And…he’s always driving.”

“And better at even Mick than spotting blondes,” “Davy pointed out.

“What? You mean—”

“What can I say?” Mike cut Peter, sweet, naïve Peter, off, watching the Micky-shaped dot recede into the distance behind them.

“Shouldn’t we pull over? Wait for him?” Peter asked, craning his neck to look back.

“No, no. No coddling. No wrapping in cotton wool.” Mike threw a mock-innocent smile at Pete, who’d been urging Mike for months now to dial down the, what was it, patent family, or something. To treat them all as adults. “Mick’s resourceful. He knows where we’re going and he’ll catch us up. Agreed, Davy? Motion carried.”

In addition to the smug self-righteousness shooting through him at having proved he harkened to _and_ heeded Pete’s words, Mike let sly, sneaky triumph bloom. That’d learn Mick. A bit. Payback was never kind, but oh, it felt so good. He tamped down any guilt trying to snag him then or when they were waiting on Wellington Street for Micky to catch up, which he did on a skateboard—one he hadn’t had with him when he’d exited the car.

“Again with the Mr. Punyiverse look?” Davy straightened from his lean against the Monkeemobile and indicated Micky’s topless form.

“I had to give the shirt off my back for this skateboard, you bums!” Micky jumped up and down on the spot. “Pop the trunk,” he ordered, and snatched a button-down from the clothes there.

“Sorry ’bout that, Mick,” Mike said, his face a wide grin.

“You will be. It was your shirt. Your favorite one too.” Micky got into the car and was laughing within seconds. He could never stay mad long…although that didn’t mean he wouldn’t feel entitled to seek revenge later. Mike made a mental note to be on his guard.

“Why we driving in this gate?” Micky asked.

Mike was asking himself the same question, realizing he’d mixed up Hobart and Wellington Streets and just followed a line of traffic down the latter.

“Because I’ve never been to Australia?” He leaned out to the security kiosk. “Hi, we’re here for Clearview Productions—”

“Isn’t it Clairvoyant?” Davy butted in.

“ _Clairlight_ ,” Peter said.

“Here for Monumental TV.” Mike rolled his eyes. Obviously they were; they wouldn’t be here else. “We were told to come this morning—”

“Yeah, congratulations. Main car park. Enjoy.” The bored guard handed them a shuffle of papers, including another map…and Monumental TV hats…and huge cheerleader type pompoms.

“Okay…” Mike drove to the spot indicated and they got out, next to the almost full open-sided tram car there.

“You’re late!” called a blazer and skirt and boater-hat-wearing guide, beckoning them over and into the blue and white tram, nodding at the slips of paper in their hands.

“Oh wow—we’re getting a studio tour!” Micky hustled them into the vehicle. “They must really want us!”

“We’re _on_ a studio tour,” Mike corrected, resigned, finding seats near the back for him and Peter, away from Micky who’d gone for the front.

“And I don’t think we’re supposed to be,” Peter surmised.

“And I think she’s gonna regret handing out kazoos and rattles,” Mike prophesized. He sat back and let the guide’s voice wash over him.

Through her bullhorn, she congratulated all the competition winners, all of whom looked to be in their sixties at least, and seemingly from some social club or other, and hoped they’d see stars, although there wasn’t usually filming in the summer; this was a press day. Monumental TV being ahead of the PR and promo game, there’d be promo shots for the next seasons, TV and radio spots and so on going on, oh, and special summer filming for one exciting show that they all knew and loved, hmmm?

“Can’t stand those long-haired teenagers,” observed an old coot, a few wisps of hair combed over his pate.

 “Spending their parents’ money on clothes they should be locked up for wearing,” agreed a second.

“Never doing their homework,” threw in another.

 “And wasting all their time in that G-Spot,” added a fourth.

Mike slid down farther in his seat, trying not to listen.

“You’re grouchy.” Peter squeezed his hand.

“You know why.” Being next to Peter and unable to—

“But you woke up with me. You said you’re grouchy if you wake up and I’m not there,” Peter claimed, all doe-eyed innocence.

“I like to do more than look.” Mike shot him a lowered-eyelashes look. “I like—”

“ _Pickle!_ ” cried Micky, as the vehicle braked sharply, the driver perhaps alarmed by his yell. He waved to the freckled kid in shorts posing for photos outside the massive soundstage. Out of sight of the press and his assistants, the kid flipped them off then shot pellets from his catapult at them.

“Hate that mouthy little brat,” commented the balding tour-goer. “Only like it when he gets a whoppin’.” Loud assent suggested the rest of his elderly friends agreed. “My favourite episode was when that goat butted him into the dung heap. Looked like it really rammed his tush _and_ the little monster got a mouthful of sh—”

“Should be soon arriving at soundstage twelve! When we get there, you can meet your favourite characters from _Evening Star_ ,” the guide broke in, her smile fixed into a rictus grin.

“As long as it ain’t that Billy Farting-Moose, or whatever that long-haired Indian’s called,” the second senior citizen from earlier protested. “Or that damn lazy sheriff, with his feet up on the desk. Both of ’em need a kick up the bee-hind.”

“I only watch it for the girls from the saloon,” agreed the third old guy.

“Miss Kitty’s the best,” the fourth pensioner opined. He held his liver-spotted hands out from his torso. “I call her Miss T—”

“ _The Edge of Forever!_ We’ll be going onto the set!” announced the lady guide, pressing her foot down over the driver’s on the accelerator, racing them along the lot.

“Dear God in Heaven.” Mike stared at the seats full of old geezers arguing the merits of Miss Kitty over Miss Bessie, or, as one called her, Miss Breas— “I just saw into the future, and it isn’t pretty. Look, we’re getting out of here—let’s ditch this tour at this first stop.”

Peter agreed, but it wasn’t that easy to avoid being chivvied onto the huge soundstage, full of toothily smiling actors and gritted-teethed personnel. One set was a hospital ward and private room, a photographer busy lining up uniformed medical staff around an occupied bed there for some shoot or other.

“Guess the others’ll want to see Coma Babe and her…attributes,” Mike supposed, putting two and two together. “And by others, I don’t mean just Mick and Davy.” Who were pushing to the front. “I mean most of the tour— _Arrggh!_ ” He clutched Peter as the girl in the bed sat up.

“ _Baby?_ ” she asked, looking at Micky.

“Bloody hell, Mick, you cured her! You broke her coma!” Davy cried. “It’s a miracle!” He started clapping, others joining in, albeit looking puzzled.

“Let’s get out of here!” Micky had paled and was trying to back away.

“Micky?” The girl was out of bed, her hand outstretched. Camera clicked all around her. “It is you—Baby Bubbles! It’s me, your old Tub Tot Twin, Sally Suds!”

“Coma Chick was Sal— Wait. _You_ were Baby Bubb—” Davy collapsed to the floor, wheezing in hysterics, looking like _he’d_ need medical assistance.

“You mean, as in, ‘Soft as a bubble, every last inch of you’?” Peter spluttered, not much better off.

“The birds do say that!” Davy managed, beating his fists on the floor.

“Hey, Baby.” Mike was grinning too. “Turns out you have seen her…assets, after all. How come you never mentioned that gig?”

“It was only one year!” Micky yelled. “I didn’t do any more after!”

“I was so sad when they booted you.” The girl shook her head. “But after the… _incident_ , I guess they had no choice and— Micky? Where— Let’s catch up!” she shouted as he ran for it, the other three following. “Hey, you know yours was the first I ever saw?” came faintly in their wake.

“ _Come on!_ ” Impatient at the wheel of the otherwise empty tour car, Micky beeped the horn and gestured to them to scramble aboard the already moving vehicle. “We can’t be late for the meeting!”

“All right, all right.” Davy vaulted in and took a seat. “No need to work yourself into a lather, Baby.”

“Hey.” Peter caught Mike’s eye and sat next to Davy, looking from him to Micky. “Everything okay? Only you seem…”

“Both of you seem. Extra seem,” Mike threw in, tossed into a seat as Micky swerved.

“News from home?” Peter guessed.

“Yeah. Suppose.” Davy sighed. “Dad’s not doing too well, as you know. Like, not well at all. And you know my sister’s getting married? It’s gonna be a big do, everyone getting together. To see Dad. Just—”

 _In case_ , he didn’t say. “And we’re all gonna chip in for your fare,” Mike reminded him.

“Yeah.” Davy shrugged. “I’d love to get back home, help out Dad, go in with the costs of the wedding, get my sister something nice as well… I know we’ve been royal pains in the bum, this last week or so. Micky’s got his family financial worries too. It’s just how we cope, dig it? Anyway. But be good news if we got this gig, you know?”

Mike looked at Peter. “I know,” he said. Well, he did now.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a bit silly.

Mike was glad Davy had stopped crooning “Ba-by Bubbles makes bath time bub-er-ly fun,” not the least because the jingle was goddamn catchy and he found himself wanting to add the, “Doubly! Bubbly! Sud-sy! Fun!” harmonies as he’d used to when watching the commercials as a kid.

He was also glad to get into the relative normalcy of an office and away from the various groups of people shouting at them and chasing after their tour tram out on the lot. His stomach was still turning over and his ears buzzing from Micky’s erratic driving and simultaneous bullhorn-delivered commentary on alleged sights they were passing. All that stop-starting to pick up extra and mostly bemused passengers hadn’t helped, either. And just how they’d picked up a mini-skirted blonde who was still tagging along with them, he didn’t know.

Yeah, this office was shelter at least, even if he was confused as to who was who and did what. He’d supposed—if he’d thought at all about it—that the TV company, Monumental TV, the television production subsidiary of Monumental Pictures, made the programs themselves that they sold to networks. Well, they did, here in the soundstages on their studio lot, but the shows were created, written, and put together by production companies, such as Clairlight, responsible for _Hollywood Hills High_. He tried to sort out who was from that company, who was from the TV company, who was from the KSU-TV network, and who was from the main sponsors—all of whom were trying to get sense out of them and make them fill in forms.

“Experience…” Micky drawled, pointing at the space on the page. “Oh, man, I’m gonna need more paper…and you’re gonna need a cold drink when you read it, ’cause I won’t be holding _anything_ back.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t say it has to be real,” Davy pointed out. “So your dreams of Jeanie’ll count. You can give free rein to you dic…tionary.”

“What?” Mike asked, not catching what one of the executives had said. Oh. They were surprised the group had no manager or agent. “Well, we do have Mr. Schneider.”

“But he’s a real dummy,” Peter added.

“Good with the advice if you yank him hard enough,” Davy said.

“But lousy at negotiation.” Micky shook his head.

“Young fellas, do you have any questions?” asked a middle-aged man, his tone strained.

“I have one.” Peter raised his hand from the table in the corner. “Are these croissants for everyone? If not, sorry, because I’ve eaten most of them. They’re _really_ good. May I take the rest? I can easily find a bag or a box.” He gave his most winsome smile.

“I think that was these guys’ breakfasts, man!” Mike closed his eyes.

“That’s fine.” The enamel on the executive’s teeth chipped, he clenched them so hard. “So is one of you not here?”

“Umm, Micky. Micky’s not all there,” Davy deadpanned.

“Davy, cool it.” Mike shot him a warning look. Okay so now he knew why the younger members of the group had been bratty this last week or so, but that didn’t make it any easier to be around, or mean he had to put up with it. “And don’t any of you riff on this.”

 _This_ was another suit saying he had some photos for them to look at. Which turned out to be photos of the Monkees, actually, auditioning yesterday.

“We love the dynamic,” a slightly younger-seeming member of the team told them. “We think it’s, erm, hippy-groovy and far out of sight.”

“Dynamic?” Mike studied the pictures. Them playing and singing…and Grace, aka Melodie, joining in first from the audience, then up on the small platform with them.

“Look at this eyeline.” The same guy drew his finger along the photo, from Mike to Melodie, then from Peter to Melodie. “And this texture. It’s palpable.” ‘Texture’ turned out to be Mike looking at Peter looking at Melodie, then Peter looking at Mike looking at Melodie. Mike…wasn’t sure what to make of it, but knew he didn’t like it. “We’d like you to see some rushes. Come on.”

“A private screening of a movie?” Micky yodelled, for some reason, and followed the management along the corridor to a small theater and to the front row of its deep plush seats.

Passing him to sit down in front of the screen, Mike did a double take at the small red and white box of popcorn in Mick’s hand. “Where d’you get that, between the office and here?” he asked.

“There’s a trick in every trade. Ones I’ll never tell.” Micky mimed zipping his lips.

“Here.” Peter sat next to Mike and broke a flaky pastry in half, passing a piece to him. “There didn’t seem much point leaving just the last one, you know? Oooh, apricot!”

Mike shook his head when an assistant tried to give him a clipboard with sheets of paper on it. “I’m not here to study. Just gimme the gist,” he ordered.

Resigned, he slumped low to let the explanation about the test audience’s viewing of the acts from yesterday and the ranking system and God knew what else wash over him. “Roll the damn film already!” he begged, unable to take any more. Micky clapped his hands once and the lights dimmed. Mike stared.

“Nuh-uh. Not revealing my secrets,” Micky informed him.

The movie was short, just the performances from yesterday, with the Monkees clearly the best received by the live listeners in the Hot Spot and—a glance at Peter’s sheets of paper told him—by the selected test audience too. The Band of Who? were much as Mike’d expected, barely able to strum a few chords, receiving weak applause, except from Lindy WhatEverHerNameWas, cheering and clapping them from her stage-side table.

“We rock, guys!” Micky took a slurp from the bottle of Coke he’d also acquired.

“And roll!” The thirty-something production guy added, blushing when they all, his bosses included, stared at him.

“Lights, please!” barked one executive. Micky clapped and the lights come on…to reveal Grace sitting at the end of the row across the aisle. Mike jumped.

“Hi!” she called. “Sorry I’m late. It took longer to get here than I thought.” She held out a few papers. “I filled everything in.”

Mike enjoyed the looks on the bosses’ faces and their inter-group mumbles and dawned-light expressions when they realized this chick was ‘Melodie.’ Made him feel like foolish. She’d dressed differently again today, this morning in flared pants and a blazer, it looked like, with a button-down shirt.

“…genre,” he tuned back in to catch her explaining. “Teenage girls singing ‘innocent’ pop songs about their lives, their adolescence?”

“You already work for Monumental?” A middle-aged guy looked up from Grace’s sheet.

Mike sat to attention. This was what he’d been wondering—what Grace did for money. She’d danced over the subject yesterday, in talking about New York, and been coy about what she was doing now, but living in the Big Apple and a summer at Venice Beach didn’t come cheap. His lips thinned as he remembered another duplicitous woman.

“I’m on the books. I got on through the union—harpist for the Monumental Studio Orchestra’s harpist, should one be needed, this summer.”

“So that’s how you heard about the audition?” Mike broke in.

She shrugged. “I guess?”

“So you got more work on?” he pressed.

“There’s possible corporate events here, and something about session work for the new record label set up to issue records by artists affiliated with Monumental TV, and issue soundtrack recordings for Monumental Studio and TV productions…” She looked along their row, nodding _hi_ at the other three.

“Nothing concrete?” Surprisingly, one of the suits asked that. “So you’re free for filming?”

“Oh, well, there’s…I mean, I have a little work, you know?”

 “Doing what?” Mike jumped on that. She’d looked shifty.

“Michael?” Peter queried.

“What’s this other act written down here?” The same suit tapped Grace’s form.

She laughed. “I can’t see it going over well in the Hot Spot. It’s not upbeat pop music. She’s a _chanteuse_ , all gamine with dark eye makeup, perched on a prop stool, Gauloise burning in a long-stemmed ashtray by her side, strumming a basic guitar accompaniment—all I can manage—singing seductive, sad songs. Real laments, all wistful. She’s called Françoise du Coeur-Solitaire. Françoise Lonely-Heart.”

She ducked her head, making her hair fall into her eyes so she could peer up through it, pouting. “She has this deep voice…” Grace demonstrated it. “All her songs are in heavily accented English about her ’eart. _My ’Eart Made of Tears. My ’Eart Torn in Two._ All. In. This. Monotone.”

Micky and Davy laughed. Peter clapped and whistled his appreciation, and Mike glared at him. Couldn’t help it. But he wished he hadn’t when he noticed a few of the executives had caught it, and were nudging one another and nodding.

“Monkees, Grace,” said the oldest and fattest, in the most expensive suit. “Time’s short on this. Filming starts, like yesterday. In short, we want you for _Hollywood Hills High_.”

“ _What?_ That’s fab-gear!” cried Davy.

“Kinky-gear!” Micky went one better and leaped up to hug his fellow Monkees and shake hands with everyone else.

“Hold your horses!” Mike demanded. Had they all gone plum crazy? “We need to know terms and conditions. Salary, to start with!”

“Three hundred bucks a week,” answered one of the men.

“ _Each?_ ” Davy gasped, clutching Micky. “Bloody Nora! I can get home for my sister’s wedding! You can help your—”

“Wait a second!” Mike’s yell cut through the whooping. “What’s the catch?”

“Michael!” Peter reproached.

“Well, there’s gotta be one.” He stared at the row of suits. “So tell us.”

“We want you…together,” the man explained. “As a combo. Melodie singing with your group.”

“ _What!_ ” Mike exploded, his head ringing, making him miss most of the younger guy’s explanation about the spark, the atmosphere of him and Peter vying for their singer, those looks, that tension, how it foreshadowed then mirrored how Skip and Rico were fighting over Jeanie this new season… Luckily, those idiots had misinterpreted everything but—

“We could all go with you! Travel!” Peter was answering Davy and turned to Mike. “The Warm Embrace invited us to stay with them in London, said they could get us some gigs there, remember. We could see Europe—”

“Oh yeah? And how we gonna do that if we’re slathered in makeup and filming under bright lights in some fake diner for all of fall through to next summer, huh?” Mike interrupted.

“Guys, we’re not talking next season.” The younger-looking company dude held up his pages. “After what we saw yesterday, this is starting right away, for the next few weeks, as part of the summer special episodes we’re filming and transmitting from now until season two starts in early September. It’s marketing genius—”

“I look like I care, boy?” Mike stood.

“Well, it is.” The guy finished in a mumble. “While all other shows are showing reruns as holdovers, we’re putting out four hour-long weekly specials, with their own arc, leading up to next season.”

“Mike, you have to agree, this is a fantastic—”

“I don’t have to agree to anything.” Mike cut Davy off and stalked to the end of the row to stare at Grace. “We didn’t get the Monkees together to stand behind some chick and act as her backing group, goddamnit!”

“Michael, could I speak to you for a minute?” Peter left the row and joined him in the aisle. “In private?”

It wasn’t really a request and Mike followed him to the back of the room, but instead of huddling them in a corner, Peter pushed open an almost-concealed door that turned out to be a short staircase, leading to the projection booth. The kiosk was empty, but that didn’t seem to satisfy Peter, if his glance at the room’s huge window, looking down in to the cinema, was anything to go by.

He opened a door leading off the booth to a store room, a tiny narrow space that was just a small aisle between rows of high shelves storing reels of film. Besides the ladder hooked to one top shelf, the room’s only other item of furniture was a small table holding a utility knife, scissors, a roll of film, tape and a few jars and bottles. Peter pushed this behind them against the door, that way sealing it.

“You seemed fine yesterday spending time with Grace.” Peter wasted no time rounding on Mike where he stood.

“What?”

“In the club. You seemed happy enough with her then. Friendly enough.”

Mike narrowed his eyes. “You better not be suggesting I was hitting on her.”

“ _I_ didn’t say that. So just friendliness, to a newcomer? Because you were chatting away for a good while. So what’s changed since then?”

It was too heavy, too close in the confined space, with its competing thin-metal and plastic-chemical odors. “Like I said, we’re not a damn backing group for some teenybop beat girl. _Wait._ ” Something about the pout to Peter’s lips and the light in his eyes made Mike’s heart gallop. He thought he got it— “Where’d you get off, saying stuff like that?”

“Again, interesting word choice. Me? I’m just making sure this isn’t frustration making you contrary.” Peter shook his bangs in his eyes to shutter his gaze.

“Frustration?”

“Oh, not because of striking out with a chick. More than that.” Their warped talk of last night spun between them, as did an image from before that—Micky’s defiance arousing Mike. Damn. He thought he’d concealed that. Peter let this knowledge hang and twist in the air before allowing Mike to save face. “Because you didn’t get any this morning.”

“This morning. Right.” Mike gave a slow exhalation. “And whose fault’s that?”

“Micky’s, actually.”

Mike ignored the wisecrack in favor of pushing close. Heavy-lidded, slow-voiced, he asked, “And that’s what you’re here for—to make it up to me? See me right?”

Pete was close enough for Mike to catch his scent and realize it was Mike’s own cologne, a tiny splash on Peter’s neck, he guessed, and that he could detect it because Peter’s warm skin or his speeding pulse diffused it, making it heady. _Like a tease. Like a provocation._

No; an _invitation_ , one Mike accepted by reaching out both hands and grabbing Peter’s ass. He loved squeezing those taut globes, even through the cotton of the pants Peter wore today. But no, right now it wasn’t enough, and he slipped a hand down the back of Peter’s pants. His breath snagged at Peter pushing up into his grasp, at the soft, warm flesh he stroked and shaped.

“You look flustered,” Peter observed, lounging back against not the shelving, but its ladder, and making Mike remove his hands.

“Yeah? You look more,” came Mike’s pathetic retaliation as he crowded Peter, to push himself between his legs, shoving at Peter’s other foot until Peter stumbling, managing to step on the ladder’s bottom rung to right himself and raise him to the height Mike wanted. He flung one hand up to grip a rung of the ladder above his head, steadying himself, and Mike covered this with his own, squeezing Peter’s long, slim fingers against the cool metal. He held on to the other side of the ladder’s frame, caging Peter in. “What you gonna do now, shotgun?”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a bit silly.

“ _This._ ” And his innocent-seeming but wicked-intentioned Peter caught Mike out—as usual— when he snaked his free hand down to unbutton and unzip them both, shimmying his hips to drop his pants a little then curling his hand up around the nape of Mike’s neck. “What are _you_ going to do?” he breathed into Mike’s mouth, leaning to make his bangs tangle in Mike’s eyelashes as well as his own to underscore his raising of the stakes.

Peter’s nearness, the heat and strength of him, went straight to Mike’s groin, as always. It gratified him to see Peter was similarly affected, his cock stirring to full hardness without as much as a hand to it. Mike struck a hand out wildly for the table behind him…and the small pot of Vaseline he’d noticed on it. He managed to unscrew its lid one-handed.

“Not what. Who. _You_ ,” he answered Peter. “So I’ll need this.” He kept one hand in place, imprisoning Peter under him. _Jesus._ This was…crazy. Risky. Crazy risky. Anyone could come in and find them pants halfway down, their hard, erect dicks pressed together, their eyes locked in challenge—there’d was no way they could be doing anything other than getting ready for a quick clandestine screw.

As if sensing Mike’s fear, Peter pressed nearer still, devouring his mouth as if he’d been starved of it forever. Or at least all day. Mike shuddered when Peter nipped at his bottom lip, mouthing _“succulent”_ against it, and making Mike smile, which gave Peter the opportunity to plunge his tongue inside. His touch was forceful and, Mike wanted to think, _possessive_. Whatever it was, it seared Mike, lighting him up from head to toe.

He put a little distance between them, to coat himself in the lube. His turn to challenge Peter, and Peter answered his raised eyebrow by hooking one leg around Mike’s hip. Mike’s version of upping the ante was to clasp his hands around Peter’s ass and nudge him through the ladder a little, to perch him on the edge of a shelf behind him. With slow, deliberate intent, Peter raised his other leg and hooked him closer still, forcing him flush against his body, with the head of Mike’s dick hard at Peter hole. Mike caught Peter’s gasp in his mouth and breathed, “Ready?” against his lips.

Before Peter could reply, could even nod, Mike pushed slowly, holding Peter steady when he would have thrust forward. No, Mike was in charge, easing the head of his cock just inside Peter, letting his thickness stretch and stimulate him there, that spot that made Peter writhe. Mike held still as long as he could before he pushed a little deeper, a little farther.

“ _More._ ”

“You’ll get more.” He dropped the words right into Peter’s ear from where his head rested in the crook of his neck. “Everything you can take.” He thrust deeper, making Peter grip harder on both the ladder and Mike’s neck, keeping pace with the shallow, then fast and deep pace he set. He thrust harder, his movements rocking the ladder, and sucked on that tempting neck in front of him. It was too fast and hot to last, and Mike stumbled, readjusting his hold when Peter eased his hand from his nape and forced a little distance between them to wrap that hand around his glistening cock.

Holding Peter this close, Mike felt every movement he made, every pass around the head, every brush across the glans. That and the moans which filled the room made him push harder and deeper than before, one last time, to shudder in a quick but punishing climax, one that heated every nerve and locked every muscle in his body and that fired Peter too.

“Babe, you’re so fucken _hot_ ,” he gasped, watching Peter gripping tighter, moving his hand faster, and then spurting into his fist.

Mike’s legs wanted to tremble when he pulled out of Peter and his arms shook as he let Peter go. He stayed close until Peter’s feet were firm on the floor and he released his hand from its curl around the metal bar of the ladder. Mike tore a handful of paper towel from the roll on the small table and passed some over, helping Peter clean up.

“Am I grinning that wide?” he asked, tracing Peter’s face-splitting smile.

“Am I that flushed?” countered Peter, blowing on Mike’s cheeks.

“Well, hell, babe!” burst from Mike. He gestured at the shelf, the ladder, the whole room. “This…that— It was… I don’t have the words. I don’t think there are words!”

“I’ve been wanting to try that position,” Peter commented.

Mike stared. “Ya gotta stop reading Micky’s girlie mags, man!”

“Have I?” Peter breathed in his ear, zipping him up and standing still for Mike to do the same to him. “You sure?”

“Well, no, I guess not. But that’s no reason to smirk. Getting me so goddamn horny I can’t think straight!”

Peter didn’t need to counter that, not when, _You love it_ rang in the air as clearly as if he’d spoken the words. “But you’re not, so you should be able to now,” he said.

“Huh? Oh.” Mike moved the table aside for them to exit the closet and the booth. True, he felt more relaxed. He chuckled. “If that was you being concerned about me thinking with my dick, you got it backward, you know? Because it usually means guys made the wrong decision to get _with_ a chick.”

“I guess.” Peter pushed through the door at the bottom of the stairs and held it open for Mike.

“So that was your attempt to persuade me to your way of thinking, babe? To—”

“Soften you up?” Peter pressed back against Mike to check, then rubbed a slow circle against him to make sure. “Not…completely. I have needs too.”

“I know.” Despite them being in public, Mike risked a quick stroke of Peter’s backside. “And I’m privileged to meet them.”

His pledge hung, portentous in the silence.

“Seriously, how bad could taking the job be?” Peter finally asked.

“I guess.” Mike’s Peter impersonation was lousy. “The money would be nice. And yeah, see all those places we talk about…”

They rejoined the others at the front of the screening room, both their steps slow and easy.

“Okay, fine.” Mike nodded to those present. “I agree.”

“Oh, you do, do you?”

Taken aback by the tone of Grace’s reply, Mike took a look around the tableau and read the room. Sharp, prickly silence.

“Because _I_ don’t,” she continued, standing. “Not that any of you care enough to ask me, seemingly, preferring to just take my agreement for granted. Newsflash, people, it’s the twentieth, not the nineteenth century.” She glared. “Women have rights and opinions, you know? And my opinion is I reserve my right to work with whom I chose and not a bunch of guys who don’t really want to work with me!”

“Miss—”

She ignored the executive. “Think I’m some sort of masochist? So no. Or in French, _non, non et non_.”

“Well, that’s a pity.” The older three besuited men stood, making their way out, the plumper one speaking. “Because it’s a package offer. Meaning all of you or none of you. From what you’ve all said, you really want and need this shot—”

“And the show needs you,” interrupted the younger guy, to get another glower.

“Fine. Al, the summer special’s your baby. We don’t have time to waste on this, so if I don’t hear from you later today, we’ll go with the original idea and timing for this new strand. So I suggest you find a way to work this out.” The door swung behind the executives as they quit the room, leaving a heavy atmosphere in their wake.

“ _Damn!_ ” yelled Davy. “Mike—”

“Hey, don’t start on me.” He glared at Grace, then turned to the younger corporate suit, Al. “So, we all gotta learn to get along and play nice? What do you suggest? Go out for lunch? Get smashed and play truth or dare?”

“Lunch…” Al conferred with the blonde woman, seemingly some sort of assistant’s assistant. “Is provided, yep. I think if you hung out together and all came and saw what life’s like in the _TripleH_ family, what kind of people we are, what we do…” He was sweating too much to go on.

“Your first project?” Micky asked, soft-hearted, especially when there was a mini-skirted blonde in the mix. “What have you got in mind? ’Cause you’ll find I’m always up for truth or dare. Or just about anything, really…”

* * *

“Wanna take those famous last words back?” Mike asked as the small Monumental bus that had driven them from the studio pulled into the forecourt of the Beverly Hills mansion.

“Bloody ’ell!” Davy gawped at the formal English landscaping of the gardens and the gray roofs and red brick chimneys of the massive house. “Feel as if I’ve crossed the pond.”

“And gone back in time.” Peter skimmed the notes the production assistant had passed them. “It’s some sort of meet and greet for fans. Oh and the house is Tudor revival.”

“With…revived people?” Grace stared at the crowds in historical costumes thronging the courtyard that was visible through an archway.

“What is all this?” Mike queried.

“ _Kathryn of Oregon_.” 

Mike stared at Peter, who held up the notes they’d been given, his face amused. “The latest teensploitation flick. Lively British-pop-music-loving American teenager Kathryn accidentally time-travels back to the court of Henry VIIIth of England and changes the course of history. As one does. Monumental’s filming it at the moment. I guess this is a location, right, Leslie?”

“Yep, this is the Tudor court setting for a week,” the blonde production assistant replied. “And they’re using every lunch break from filming to hold a different Monumental TV show event here. Yesterday was the cast of _Every Witch Way_.”

“Gotta maximize that budget spend,” Micky agreed. “So it’s what, for competition winners, fan club branch organizers…”

“Magazine stories, photo shoots…plus sneaky establishing shots of actors from various shows, in case anything like this gets added to a storyline…” Leslie added, winking.

“Bet they will be.” Micky nodded. “Come on, let’s go see!” He jumped down from the bus and they followed.

A young guy came through the archway and leaned against the wall. He lit a cigarette he hadn’t bought in any tobacconist.

“Ah. _Now_ I get the show’s name!” Micky said. “Works on at least two levels, right?”

Micky’s voice made the guy look up. He shaded his eyes to squint at them. “Hey, it’s you guys from yesterday! Your music was great. You were the best by miles. Are you joining the show?”

“ _Rico?_ ” asked Grace, her tone doubtful.

He laughed, blowing out a plume of smoke. “You got me. Larry, actually. I’m not really a Chicano hoodlum any more than I am a Tudor courtier—whatever that is!” He flicked at his black and white historical garb. “I say, good fellows, thou tokest?” He held out his joint.

“I’m…working.” Grace flushed at her words: the guy was too, of course.

“Thanks, man.” Peter took a long drag and offered it to Mike.

“Better not. After yesterday…” Just how relaxed they’d been in bed still weighed on him a bit.

“Oh, this is mild,” ‘Rico’ and Peter said together, then laughed.

“Gets you through, huh?” Mike indicated the crowd, audible and visible in the courtyard beyond.

“Through this sort of junket, the PR?” Larry took the joint back. “Hey, we’re grateful to the fans. Without them, there’d be no audience, and we’d be out of a job. We’re just enjoying the ride, for as long as it lasts, you know? Most of us on _TripleH_ , well, me and Danny and Stew, say, have been working since we were kids, so we know how lucky we are to have gotten this.”

He eyed them. “None of us wafts about thinking we’re ‘stars’, whatever that means. Anyone on the show making like they’re above it soon gets cut down to size. You’ll soon see that. We just try and have fun with it, you know? Talking of, get costumed up!” He indicated the tents a few feet away. “Then grab lunch and come meet the others.” He shook his head when Peter went to pass him the joint back. “Keep it.” He saluted with two fingers and ducked back through the archway into the crowd.

Mike turned to the tents. “Costumes?”

“Way ahead of you.” Davy emerged from the nearest…dressed in sumptuous fur-trimmed robes and sporting a golden crown.

“Prince?” Mike supposed.

“ _Boy_ prince. The only costume that would fit him,” came in Micky’s voice from within the canvas.

“Let me guess…yep. That’s what I was imagining,” Mike said when Micky bounded out in a tightfitting multicolored costume with pointed-toed shoes, and a hat with bells on each of its points, and shaking a long stick.

“You look like a human playing card. About as filled out as one too,” commented Davy, then ducked to avoid being hit with the balloon on the end of the stick. “Grace, don’t you want to dress up?”

“Not…really.” She sneaked a glance at her watch and looked shifty, Mike felt. “I’m not the only one, right?” She indicated Mike.

“No, no. I think I will,” Mike challenged. “So…”

Shrugging, Grace strode into the far tent, leaving the near one for Mike. _Hmm._

“Huh.” Davy, already with a small entourage, or court, pointed at them when they came out. “See you made as much effort as he did.”

“What?” Mike straightened the sword strapped over the back of the long hooded cape that he’d put on over his own clothes and boots. “I’m a warrior.”

“I’m an outlaw,” Grace, green and brown cowled tunic over her clothes, longbow slung on, told them. “What, you expected me to be some fancy princess? Floor-length dress and pointed hat? Would you dress up like that?”

“I might,” Mike surprised them all, himself included, by saying. Anything else he might have added was lost when Peter ducked out through the tiring tent flap. “You’re… _sugar_.” He swallowed. Peter, in a long, droopy-sleeved brown leather tabard top laced over a flouncy white shirt, had very tight-fitting two-color pants like hose on his slim legs and his own soft leather boots on his feet. His tawny-blond hair gleamed and his eyes shone amber under the simple orange and brown circlet he wore around the crown of his head.

“A minstrel,” Peter supplied.

“Peter… _babe_ …” Mike drooled, most of his breath stolen by the gorgeous sight.

“Chill.” Davy elbowed him and darted a glance around. Grace wasn’t listening. She was too busy examining the small teardrop-shaped stringed instrument Peter carried.

“Weird chordophone. It’s not a lute,” she said, absorbed.

“A mandore?” Peter asked her, plucking a string. “It seems in the treble range. Listen…”

“An early mandolin, you mean? Never seen one. Oh, I wonder if it’s a gittern?”

Mike didn’t catch all their talk, still being too busy staring at the delicious picture Peter the troubadour made. Micky seemed to acquire clothes and accessories from whatever weird scene they found themselves involved in. Could he—

“Come on!” cried Micky, bopping people with his weapon as he leaped up and down in impatience before rushing in through the archway. “Smell that roasted peacock and stewed swan? I do and it’s making me want luuuunnnch!”

“Huh.” Peter resettled his circlet. “First time I’ve ever been hit over the head with a pig’s bladder.”

“Grace?” Mike caught her looking at her watch again. “We boring you, or you got someplace else to be?”

“Sorry.” She blushed. “Right. Let’s go Tudor?” Hesitating when Peter crooked an elbow for her, she threaded her arm through it and they followed Micky, heading for the courtyard with its stalls and tents.

Before Mike could trail them, Davy reverse body-swerved into him, knocking him into the wall.

“ _Davy?_ ” Mike cried out in surprise.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still quite silly.

“Sorry, mate.” Davy held up his hands, palms facing Mike. “This crown’s giving me extra weight. Don’t know my own strength.” He pulled on Mike’s shoulder to get him to stoop. “A word?”

“I’m being cool, man!” Mike pointed toward Peter’s vanishing back view and plastered on a calm expression, wiping off all traces of an ogle.

“Not that. Well yeah, that too. Although I think it’s sweet, meself, how you’re solid gone on him.” Davy grinned. “True then, the taller they are, the harder they fall?”

“Why you…” Mike mimed throwing a jab at Davy’s ribs. “What, l’il biscuit?”

Davy closed his eyes at the pet name. “You know how I never ask for anything. Favors, or what have you.”

“Except for us to lay down cover stories when chicks call. On the phone _and_ in person. Oh, and hide you if necessary.”

Davy gave his cheeky grin. “Well, yeah, but that’s part and parcel of being a good flatmate, right?”

“That’s a full-time job, is what it is.” But Mike grinned too.

“I don’t ask you to do stuff for me, as a rule, true?”

“Nooo,” Mike replied, thinking it over. Davy was independent. Hated being dependent.

“Well, I’m asking you to now.”

Mike guessed what was coming.

“Make an effort with her, all right?” Davy jerked his chin in the direction Grace had gone. “This job, it’d be…”

“I know.” Mike saved him the trouble of trying to verbalize it. “I know. I…will. Promise.”

“Ta. And anyway, thought you southern lot were all about the manners and the hospitality?”

“Yeah, just like you English with your etiquette and your politeness.”

With an, “I have the politeness of a prince, me!” Davy strolled after the others.

Mike intended to keep his word, not just for Davy’s sake but also to continue what he’d started yesterday, working his charm on the chick. Oh, not necessarily to get her hung up on him, but to get her to _open_ up, and chat. It hadn’t escaped him just now that Grace, like him, had chosen a costume that was easy to slip on, showing a lack of real investment in the proceedings, and easy to slip off, should the need arise to do so in a hurry. To make a quick exit, say. At a specific time, hence all the clock watching.

So yeah, he’d be friendly to Grace while being determined to watch her like one of the row of hawks it gave him a medium Monkee scare to see sitting on a tall block of wood just inside the archway. Mike quickened his pace to catch the others up, although he had to admit there was much more to look at than Grace, inside, starting with the house itself that looked so Hollywood he knocked on a wall to check it was real. Yep, solid. Not a set, all painted wood and thin plaster. 

Each side of the large open courtyard held different attractions—crafts, amusements, games, and animals, he guessed, watching two girls shriek their way through a slow, jolting camel ride around the yard. Micky loved camels. He’d be perched between its humps in a heartbeat.

“Should I?” Grace was saying, even as she fingered the thick leather gauntlet held out to her and stroked the head of a small beady-eyed hawk.

“Go on!” Peter urged.

“Yeah, an outlaw would need a hawk. Hunt for game, in the forest?” Mike added, wondering if she’d be brave enough to let the bird of prey perch on her. Amanda would have donned the protective gear in a second and be demanding someone photograph her, all while thinking up a witty caption or a title for this edition of her column. He suddenly missed her, wished she was here, running her hot, hazel-eyed gaze over him and Peter and making lewd remarks in that plum-in-pouty-lipped-mouth voice of hers.

“OhmyGod, OhmyGod!” Grace tried to bite the exclamation back, but couldn’t, as the bird hopped up onto her outstretched left wrist, the bells around its neck tinging. “It’s heavy! Really? Okay…” She copied the falconer’s gesture and cast the bird off, exclaiming as it flew off and up to catch whatever the second handler had shot into the air from a mechanical catapult. “Will she come back?” she asked, wide-eyed.

Her question was answered when the bird plummeted down within a half-minute, a small piece of meat in its beak. Grace barely stuck her hand out in time to provide a landing, and buckled under the impact. “Oh my God!” Grace burst out again when the falconer took his bird back. “That was amazing! Thanks so much!” She resettled her cowl tightly over her hair and around her face.

“Your turn, Mike.” Davy’s smile was just that little bit malicious as he indicated Mike to the…snake handler he had by his side. Complete with huge undulating snake.

“C’m here, little fellah. Oh, not you, Davy.” With a smug look at Davy, Mike held out his arms to take the yellow and beige snake, supporting its body loosely a quarter along from both ends, bearing its weight while avoiding the head and tail. He let it slink around and twine about his hands and wrists to get comfy, turning his arms over to help it.

“Woah.” Davy stepped back, looking a little pale.

“He’s from Texas, remember?” Grace said, making Mike laugh. She gave a gentle stroke to the snake, first asking permission of the handler, then thanking him after.

“Let’s see what we can find for you,” Mike told Davy, casting a glance around.

“Oh, I think that’s Amy from the _TripleH_ special mag beckoning us—we should go and say hi, get more publicity, right?” Gulping, Davy split.

“Aww, and I arranged a miniature pony ride for him,” Micky said, appearing in their midst. “Come on. I found the food tents.”

“You would.” Peter bent to stroke a cautious finger along the reptile’s back as it slithered to its rightful owner.

Mike loved seeing Peter in that bowed-head position, his hair in his eyes, his nape exposed, like when he was bending over his bass or guitar, or focused on writing or reading. He stared now as Peter folded even lower to sniff.

“Smells…fishy,” he commented, fascinated. “I didn’t know what snakes smelled like! But, Mick, shouldn’t we look around a little first, before we eat?”

Mike also loved that Peter had manners.

“Nah, the break won’t be that long. Look on the way!” Micky urged, hustling them through a gap cut into the hedges making up one side of the yard, and down the short walkway it gave on to, one lined with food stalls. The smells and sizzles had Mike’s stomach growling and his mouth watering in seconds. A leg of meat turning on a spit was producing the aroma and the hiss, and he also saw golden-brown chicken on a grill. Peter wouldn’t want any of that.

“I’m here, Michael,” called Peter from the next booth along, interpreting his glancing around. “I found ye old potage!” He held out a rough wooden bowl for the stall keeper to ladle something into it.

“Huh?” Mike asked.

“Vegetable soup!” Peter explained.

While Mike accepted chicken legs and wings and a slab of the meat slathered in gravy, Peter got a chunk of cheese and a platter of vegetables. “Isn’t ‘mead’ beer?” Mike inquired of the woman who handed him a tankard from her booth. “As is ‘ale’? Not that I’m complaining.”

There was barely a trace of alcohol in it, he was told, and had to agree when he tasted it. He passed Grace a mug and she fumbled placing it on her tray, trying to balance the items it held and carry it securely. Mike narrowed his eyes. Hadn’t she said she’d supported herself by working as a waitress, in Greenwich Village coffee houses? Judging by that clumsiness with a loaded tray, he’d be prepared to bet she hadn’t. His suspicions thickened.

Seating was communal, at long tables placed around the fountain in the middle of the court, and Davy, who’d managed to get both wench service _and_ a place near to two chicks who Peter whispered to Mike were ‘Jeanie’ and ‘Lulu’, waved them over. “Above the salt, I see,” Peter remarked.

“Top table? Nice!” Micky shot over, the contents of his tray rattling, and wriggled beside a strawberry-blonde.

Taking a seat next to him, Mike eyed the sausages Micky had on his plate. “You know what’s in those?” he asked. “You know what parts of which animals they used for filling and for the casing, back in the Tudor day?”

“They’re…pork,” Micky answered.

“Oh, there’s an Elizabethan saying about cooking with pork,” Grace called over. “Yeah, they said that the only part of the pig you can’t eat is the squeak.”

“Think about it,” Mike advised, grinning, seeing the puzzled look on Micky’s face. He hid a grin when Micky examined then put down the lumpy, misshapen sausage he’d been about to bite into.

“Cruel of you,” Peter tutted from across the wooden table, making space on his bread trencher for the jacket potato Mike passed him. “Let him eat his pies, at least!”

“Sorry, Micky. Hey, they’re peacock and swan, right?” Grace said. “That’s what you said earlier!”

Feeble as the joke was, Mike smiled. He liked that Grace was trying to get into their vibe. She seemed open enough, explaining about her ‘Melodie’ persona in answer to the _TripleH_ folks’ questions and asking, along with Davy and Micky, about various plot strands and characters.

He leaned back, stretching out his legs to tangle his feet with Peter’s. He made sure to catch his eye, check he had the right feet to play footsie with. It was a thing they did, in public, under cover of a table, in lieu of being able to hold hands, say, or sit so close he could hug Peter to his side and slot Peter’s legs in between his. But yeah, always a good idea to check they were rubbing the right legs before they started. _Learned that the hard way._

Larry, aka ‘Rico’, had been telling the truth, Mike discovered, listening idly to the chatter. The cast was a normal bunch of young guys and chicks, for all they were surrounded by fans, some of whom had sent in poems and drawings to get to meet them, and which the stars were now autographing for them. They smiled big for the photographers and even the movie cameras that came up real close to them, and told funny stories about being on set or on location, including when they’d made mistakes or had mishaps.

Only one, a blonde, Lindy Something, he recalled from yesterday and earlier, was louder and shriller than the rest, and whenever a camera came near her, she half stood and leaned forward, putting on a heavy-lidded, open-mouthed expression.

Would the cast’s goodwill would last if a music combo came on the show, the novelty taking attention from them? Well, for questions like that, he had an expert on hand. “Mick— Oh for crying out loud…” Unable to bear Micky’s sad face as he stared at his untouched plate, Mike tipped some chicken and potato onto it for him. “Eat. Hey, if the series suddenly features a band playing every episode, won’t the cast mind losing screen time?”

“Nah,” came from around the chicken leg Micky was tearing strips off with his teeth. “They can sit down a little more! Plus they’ll get some great reaction shots of them at the tables, you know? Good close-ups. And I heard they’re hiring a dance coach for the cast, so they’ll look really cool and hip. The assistant to the _Hubbub_ troupe. Deandra told me.”

“Is that your girlfriend? Have the rest of you got girls?” Grace asked.

“Davy’s got enough for all of us.” Peter gave one of their standard answers.

“Don’t you have more than a girlfriend, big Peter?” Micky said.

“What?”

“Amanda’s kinda your fiancée?” Micky continued. “And you’re sorta living at her place?”

“Oh, right.” Peter laughed, although Mike didn’t find the reminder of the last kooky caper they’d gone through all that funny. “Well, pretend-temporarily. Only because of the rodeo. Long story,” he explained to Grace.

“ _Story?_ That title sounds like a country ballad!” she replied, her observation again amusing Mike. She was kind of cute, he supposed. And small, brunette and musical—Peter’s type. _Hmm._

“Talking of, want to go check out the musicians next?” Peter indicated the trio wandering not far off. “I’m interested in those flutes or recorders they’re playing.”

“I’m good here.” Micky drooled over his plate of desserts. It looked like a selection of gingerbread twists and candied fruit, plus a dish of jello and cream with lemon flavoring.

“And marzipan? Oh, man. All that sugar,” Mike lamented. “We’ll have to send you out dancing with Deandra to burn it off. Want me to call her up for you?”

“Yes, please,” Micky answered simply, starting on a small cake, mouthing, “ _hi,_ ” and waving at “Robert” and his camera, who ignored him. Them.

Mike felt the blue-eyed blonde actress staring over at them and didn’t think it was just because of Mick’s table manners. Wasn’t she a newcomer? She’d do better to talk less and listen more, then. That way, the established cast members might include her more. A couple of what looked like agents or managers came over, to speak to the cast members or journalists.

“ _Grace?_ ” Peter queried. She’d flinched, half stood, then sank down, ducking, almost in Peter’s lap, and now was practically on the floor.

“Sorry! I slipped, getting my watch. It fell off.” She fussed with her wrist.

Her watch looked fine to Mike and it seemed Peter couldn’t find anything wrong with the strap or clasp. That couldn’t be a beyond-clumsy attempt to flirt with Peter, could it? No; she’d looked— Mike cast a glance around but could detect nothing that could have alarmed her. The camel ambling yonder, behind the tallish, broad dark-haired guy checking with the feature writer that Lindy’s photos would be color, right, and a full page?

“Let’s go find the minstrels?” Grace stood, all better and her cowl pulled closer still about her face.

They didn’t get much farther than a near booth, its front decorated with mystic symbols and signs and its counter holding a huge crystal ball, when a gaudily dressed woman blocked their path. “Tell your fortunes?” she asked.

“We…don’t tend to do so well with gypsies,” Mike demurred.

“Ha!” She grabbed Grace’s palm and bent over it. “Every lady wants to know if they’ll meet a rich, powerful man—” She dropped Grace’s hand and stumbled back, staring at her.

“Or…about love.” She recovered herself, smirking at Mike and Peter, taking their hands in hers. “Marriage…” She looked from Peter’s palm to his face and let his hand go, quickly. “Or children—” She stopped tracing a line on Mike’s palm and dropped his hand like a hot potato too.

“As I say…” Mike sighed and swept them on. He determined to keep a close watch on Grace after that, because she’d paled at the gypsy woman’s words and was getting antsier as time passed, but his efforts weren’t enough. Within a half hour, with the bustle of movement of the lunch break being over and the set being readied for filming, he’d lost her.

And when he found her, she was through the archway, costume gone…and throwing a leg over the back of some guy’s motorbike, the bike revving up then heading down the driveway. To the gates.

“ _Damn!_ ” Mike cried between gritted teeth.


	10. Chapter Ten

“Hey, dude, isn’t that your old lady?”

Mike whipped around at the male voice behind him.

“She splitting on you? I remember you cats from earlier,” continued the guy, cradling to his chest a large vivarium with a beige and yellow snake coiled in it.

Mike remembered him too. Hard to forget. “Well, she—”

“Bugged out. Shame. She seemed groovy. Nice manners. You should go after her.”

“I would, but I’m kinda stuck here?” Mike looked from the guy to the white van he was moving toward. “Unless…” he continued, and plastered on a smile, a hopeful, help-me-get-my-gal-back smile…

Within seconds, he’d thrown his cape inside the tiring tent, begged the attendant there to tell his fellow Monkees he’d gone, and was opening the passenger seat of the snake wrangler’s van.

“Hey, watch out for the hognose.”

Mike picked up the small brown-spotted snake from the seat seconds before he sat on it. He twisted to put it into the back of the van, but, not seeing a way to place it into a glass tank there, held on to it instead, trying not to look at its face: its turned-up nose reminded him of Micky. “Thanks, man,” he said. “Lucky you were finishing now.”

“Yeah. Bummer about your chick.” The driver twisted the vehicle to avoid a rough patch of ground and the tanks in the back juddered a little. “But you know, these photogs can turn girls’ heads. I’ve seen it before.”

“Photogs?” Mike queried.

“Shutterbugs, snappers.”

“Photographers?”

The guy nodded. “You can tell by the bike. They’re not like journos or editorial assistants, whatever they wanna call themselves, dig? A story breaks, they can dictate their copy over the phone. But a lensman’s gotta get the film quick to where it’s gonna be developed. Not that anything broke there, back at the fan fest.”

Mike spared a glance from what he could see of the Triumph up ahead to the driver of the van he was in. “Sorry, who are you?” burst from him.

“Snake,” the man replied, bending to retrieve a small rectangle from the well between them.

‘“The Herpes Man?’” Mike read from the business card passed to him. “Wait—The _Herpes_ Man? Like—”

“I know! People are always bug-eyed at that!” Snake chortled. “So I added the explanation. Flip it over. Look on the back.”

Mike dutifully turned the card over to find tiny writing. “I can’t— It’s too sm— Thanks.” He took the magnifying glass Snake had ready and waiting for him. ‘“Herpetoculture is the keeping of live reptiles and amphibians in captivity,”’ he was able to make out.

“I wanted it all on one line,” Snake explained. “More professional, dig it? But ‘herpetologist’ seems way too formal, right? So—”

“ _Herpes._ As in, rhymes with _perks_. Not— Got it. Right.” Mike…wondered whether to say anything about the word as written. But the guy seemed to be doing okay in his chosen profession so far. He looked to be getting plenty of gigs, if his familiarity with the world of showbiz was any sign. “So, that guy up ahead’s a photographer, huh?”

“Yeah. But hey, dude, don’t freak. I don’t think we’re talking skinflics. I saw him taking shots of the _TripleH_ cast for its teen rag.”

Teen rag? What, he didn’t mean Rob Roy Fingerhead, aka _Robert_ , did he? The guy hated them, after they’d been the catalyst for getting him canned from that snooty mag. Probably had it in for them. What the hell was Grace doing with him? Was this some sort of plot? Some scheme? A takedown? He tamped down his anger. _Best save it._ But she didn’t seem to be heading innocently back to the studio—she’d have waited for a shuttle, and they were swinging down Rodeo Drive, not one of the roads that would come out higher along Sunset, nearer to the studio.

“Guess they’re going into Beverly Hills?” Snake followed Mike’s thoughts. “Oh, well, she is.” He slowed, oblivious to the impatient reactions of those behind them, when the bike stopped to let Grace down, before speeding off again, south along Sunset back towards Hollywood. Wasn’t the magazine office over that way? Whatever, Grace turned right, into Beverly Hills. And just when he was starting to like her, to consider—

 _Right. Have it your way._ Mike firmed his lips. _Game on, lady._

“I’d best take it from here,” Mike said, getting out and placing the small brown-spotted reptile on his seat. “Thanks, erm, Snake.”

“Hey, check yourself.” Snake mimed patting himself down.

Confused, Mike copied …to remove a small bright-green snake from inside his collar, hanging down like the undone ends of a tie.

“Houdini, we had this talk!” scolded the man, taking the animal from Mike and easing him between two buttons of his own shirt to wriggle his way inside. Snake shivered a little, his expression faraway. “You’d better book, dude, but keep me in the loop, huh? I’m rooting for you and your old lady.”

“Thanks, man. I’m Mike, by the way,” Mike thought he’d better reply.

“Call and tell me. I have answer service!” came on the breeze as Snake turned left and was gone.

Grace almost was, too, hurrying farther along Rodeo, past all the exclusive stores, and turning off toward Wilshire. This was the expensive hotel area. Mike’s mind raced. Was Grace a chambermaid, perhaps, at one of these exclusive hotels? She’d been late that morning, so perhaps she’d been on duty and was now rushing back for her next shift? But if she worked evenings, how could she get out to the Strip, or if mornings, be free to film? So no. Couldn’t be. She dashed along the façade of that big hotel, the Castile. It was old-fashioned, probably actually old, and in that rich-swank style, as they called it. She dashed along—and hurried in the door.

What? Was she staying there? But she’d said she was living out at Venice Beach— _Women say a lot of things that aren’t true._ Judy still loomed large in Mike’s mind. He wished he’d gotten a look earlier at the forms Grace had filled in. There’d been a section for address. She didn’t have the same air to her as the patrons of this establishment. She was a few decades younger, for one thing, and didn’t look like a skeleton in a pillbox hat and dark glasses.

She must be working there…but not as a maid, he didn’t think, his blood chilling a little. There were plenty of other jobs in establishments like this, but one in particular wasn’t part of any union, and might be the reason Grace had been so squirrelly about—

“ _Sir?_ ”

Mike had almost missed the uniformed commissionaire, who must have been sweltering in his long black coat, its brass buttons gleaming in the sun, as bright as the golden band around his black top hat. He ignored the volley of coughs from the costumed guy’s throat, starting at gentle and progressing to hacking, and kept his back to him while putting on the tie from his pocket and finger-combing his hair. He was determined to follow Grace into the lobby.

“Howdy!” he exclaimed, spinning around. Would he pass muster?

“Is sir intending to patronize this establishment?” was breathed in his direction.

 _Evidently not_. “I’m not rightly sure yet.” Mike thickened his twang to its sticking point. “I need to see if it’s befitting of my lady momma, afore she gits into town from our spread in the Hill Country. Texas,” he added. Should he say something about them having a fish farm, to excuse any lingering aroma on him? Because Peter had been right about what snakes smelled of: the whole vehicle had stunk of fish, making Mike wonder if he did now, too.

“I’m obliged to point out to sir that this establishment requires certain standards,” intoned the guy.

Okay. He must reek. “Like…” Might as well brazen it out.

“ _No bareness,_ ” came on a small cough.

“Bare— Oh, what is this bare—” Mike glanced down to make sure he had clothes on. It had been that sort of day… But yep. He had. “I’m hardly BA, man!”

“The Castile has a policy against, ahem, _naked_ arms, sir.”

Mike examined his shirtsleeves. “I don’t get it.”

But he did, a minute later, forced to accept a sports coat from a selection kept inside a cubby hole within the lobby. The jacket was so square it was a cube—literally, oversized and square-shouldered— and Mike felt boiled just looking at the heavy dark blue with even darker blue checks wool. “ _Really?_ ” he asked the valet summoned to assist him, a younger twin of the commissionaire, doing his best to be as tall and solemn as the latter.

“Oh, it’s been found to be necessary to keep a stock on hand these days, sir.”

“I wasn’t…” Mike gave in and slipped it on.

“Indeed.” The valet brushed him down. “Why, a younger Kennedy second cousin had to be loaned a tie, imagine!” He shook his head. His, “And never brought it back, either,” floated after Mike as he made good his hot, itchy escape.

He had no idea where to go in this large building. He could hardly inquire at the front desk for a possible guest called Grace something. _If that’s her name._ He followed his feet onward. Passing a row of telephones made him pause. He’d ditched the other three—would they get the message he’d left, take the studio bus back to the Monumental lot and leave there without him? He wondered if they were concerned about him. Or mad at him. Maybe he should try and call the studio, leave a message for the Monkees at the exit kiosks? Or just cut his losses and leave, try and get in touch with one of them to come collect him? Or…follow the tinkly sound of a harp he could now hear!

Feeling like a character in some sort of story, or dream, maybe, he let the music guide him along the hotel floor to an atrium set out under a skylight. The fanciful atmosphere persisted a little, and he briefly, stupidly, wondered if he’d gone back in time. “Maybe I’m goddamned _Kathryn of Oregon_ ,” he muttered, glad no one caught his moment of madness. But all these palm trees and spindly-legged tables and raffia and wicker looked like the space had gone unchanged since the last century. Or the twenties. Or thirties. Definitely not later.  The _chink_ of tea cups on saucers and the _ting_ of silver forks on china plates added to the plinkiness and out-of-time feel.

Trying to conceal himself behind and peer through the fronds of large trees and around statues, he bumped into a freestanding notice board and steadied it. It announced that afternoon tea in the Palm Court would be enlivened by a selection of light music played by harpist Miss Mary-Grace Benning, of the New York College of Music.

“Mary-Grace!” Mike spluttered. “New York College of Music!” he added, ducking behind a large tree…and almost into a young waitress, her brown uniform and frilly white cap and apron making Mike stare.

“What is all this?” he burst out, the time-slip feel threatening to take him over.

“There should be leaflets,” she replied, feeling along the ledge of the notice board.

“No, don’t give me anything to read!” Mike moaned. “Just tell me.”

The girl giggled, sounding very here and now, and not as though she’d fallen through a time tunnel. “This is the hotel’s famous Palm Court, tastefully restored, used for afternoon tea.” She indicated a trolley holding cakes that were arranged on a whole bunch of round three-tiered silver stacks with handles on their tops. For placing on the tea tables, he supposed, although he doubted the stick-thin society ladies patronizing the room would eat them.

“And Miss…Mary-Grace Benning?” Mike double-checked the name.

“From the New York College of Music.” The young waitress nodded. “I know it’s a conservatory of music in Manhattan. Oh, and it’s the oldest music conservatory in New York. Very good reputation.”

“So this, this harp playing…” Mike couldn’t think how to finished his sentence.

“It’s a new thing, yeah. Three afternoons a week. And if it takes off, there’s an idea to start having a traditional small Palm Court orchestra. Expand this, or have the fuller group on the other two days.” She took a step nearer, running her gaze over Mike, then swept the tip of her tongue over her top lip. “I have to work, but I’m around. Anything else I can…help you with?”

“Yeah. One thing.” Mike eyed her from under his swoop of hair. “What in the world is a Palm Court?”

Her "potted palms and rattan furniture, like British high society between the wars" explanation sort of made sense. But Grace didn’t. Still concealed, he squinted, getting a good look at her from her severe hair-do with all her long brunette hair piled on top of her head, the flower jammed into it matching the print of her formal floral dress, to the pastel-colored pumps on her feet. She…looked the part. But which part was this one now? He listened a little. The music sounded fine to him, light classical stuff, followed by a show tune, arranged for the harp, the latter getting more applause.

He didn’t hear what she said a few songs later, but muted clapping sounded. Grace stood and gave a decorous half-bow, far removed from one of ‘Melodie’s’ enthusiastic, panty-revealing curtseys, and slipped through a gap in the plants that was level with her harp, obviously taking a short break. Mike straightened, backing away to keep her in his sights, his movements making the palm tree shake.

Grace stopped and stared at the wavering fronds and Mike’s shadow inking over the floor toward her. It loomed large and broad, distorted by the waving leaves passing over it and the pale sunbeams from the skylight above distorting his boxy-jacketed shape even more. “Hey!” Mike called out, trying to step free of his barricade. “Stop!”

Grace’s hand shot to her mouth and she backed away, turning to run after two steps. Mike followed, not wanting to shout and draw attention to them in this rarefied place, but calling her name in a low voice. His footsteps thudded after her, louder and heavier than hers, down a small deserted corridor.

“Grace!” he finally hissed and she stopped as if shot in the back.

She leaned over, her purse fallen at her side, one hand on the wall for support, heaving in a breath and holding it, looking like she was holding in vomit as well. When she turned, still hunched over, her face was stricken and ashen, like that of a hunted animal, and her breathing was now double-time.

“ _Grace?_ ” Mike stopped and stood still, his hands out in the universal I-mean-no-harm gesture.

“ _Mike?_ ” Grace straightened and turned, to slither to the floor, coming to rest with her back to the wall. “Jesus!” She clutched her heart. “You, erm, scared me.”

“No. Oh no.” Mike shook his head. “A scare’s what you get when you wake up in the morning to find Micky sitting near naked on the end of your bed. _That?_ That was fear.” Raw and naked, and his heart squeezed at her pain. Words he hadn’t expected to say fell from his lips and his knees bent, taking him down to crouch next to her. “Tell me what happened. And what I can do.”

 

 


	11. Chapter Eleven

“What? What are you talking about? Nothing’s happened!” Grace pressed her back even more flush to the wall, pushed up from her feet and stood.

Mike remined crouched long enough to pick up her bag and gather the items spilled from it. Passes, he saw; one for the hotel they were in. “Kiddo—”

“ _Grace._ I’m _fine_ ,” she insisted, a fierce blink taking care of her wet eyes.

She looked waxy-white and Mike automatically held the back of his hand to her forehead, as he might have done for Micky or Davy, finding it clammy and cold. “You’re _really_ not.” He opened the door next to them, not knowing what he’d find, but discovering a small piano bar.

Grace shrank away. “I…I can’t go in there.” When she pointed into the intimate space, her hand shook.

The hotel must have strict rules about staff and guests’ spaces, Mike supposed. A hotel worker passed between them, twisting through the doorway with a box of rattling bottles.

“Hey, man?” Mike called after him when he’d set his case down on the bar. “Grace is working in the”—he made himself say it once more time—“Palm Court, and she’s not feeling well. Could we get a glass of—”

“On it, dude.” The young guy reached for a glass and filled it, sliding it down the bar to Mike who had to leap in and grab it before it shot off the end. The bartender made finger pistols at him as he did so, blowing away imaginary smoke after. The hotel employees seemed younger and hipper the farther away they were from the main door.

“I was gonna say water.” Mike eyed the almost full to the brim balloon of brandy. “Hey, trade you.” He shrugged free of the loaned jacket and left in across a chair. “It’s from here, dig. Where’s the nearest fresh air?”

“Yonder.” The guy pointed to the end of the small room. “It’s real neat out there.”

“Grace?” Mike beckoned to her, then lured her forward by waving the glass back and forth, wafting the fumes under her nose.

Rolling her eyes, she reached for the glass, careful not to touch his fingers, and tipped it up to knock back a healthy measure. “Napoleon,” came her comment and she handed him the depleted balloon back. She tipped her chin up to indicate he should drink. He didn’t. “You’re supposed to reply ‘Wellington’.”

“You’ll have to settle for ‘rubber boot’.” Mike took a sip of drink to be companionable, leading her to the end of the room. “I’m American and not a fancy enough one to say rain boot.” He was trying to get a smile from her, and managed it.

Sliding back the far wall’s panel revealed the rustic veranda outside, all tall flowering plants and basket chairs, so he ushered her through, giving her the brandy again. He guided her to a narrow rectangular running water pond, and they sat, Grace slipping off her shoes to paddle her bare feet in the slight ripples. She took another mouthful of the drink and he set her bag down next to her.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I got a scare. Oh, not you. It’s me. I—”

“Hmm.” Mike pulled over a chair to lean against it. “But which you? Because there’s Melodie, and Françoise, and Grace and—”

“They’re all me, yes.”

She leaned back on her elbows and looked straight ahead. Mike kept silent, waiting. He’d challenged Judy about lying, presenting a false image of herself, but this…didn’t have that feel.

“But who _me_ is I have no idea. Who I am or who I’m going to be? I’m trying to figure that out.”

“And where does Miss Mary-Grace Benning fit into the figuring?” Mike prodded.

“Ha. That’s the government-name me.” Now she looked at him. “You’ve been suspicious of me from the off, I realized, and I thought you… But no. You’re you, just who you say you are, right?”

“What you see is what you get,” Mike replied, still not understanding. “Like I said, I’m not fancy, came here from Texas for the music scene, met the other three, and we all kinda fell in together. Into our pad and our band.”

“And that’s…great.” Grace nodded, her eyes big and the wistful light in the brown irises touching him. She thrust a hand into her bag. “So, you want to see ID, to know I’m really this pathetic square, conservative—”

“ _Kid!_ ” Mike blinked at her driver’s licence. She was younger than Micky and Davy even. He could see it now.

 “Yes.” She drained the drink, her fingers tight on the crystal, then cast the glass aside. “It’s not that I’m a poseur or a phony, or whatever else you’re thinking, Mike. I’m just…trying to find my way.” When he said nothing, she pursed her lips. “Did _you_ know what you wanted to be or do when _you_ were my age?”

“No! Not one goddamn clue.” He laughed. “After high school, I ran away with the rodeo. Sorta. Then I joined the air force. Then I left that and went to community college. Left that too, and came here.”

“You did something. You made a life.” She swished the pool of water a little. “That’s what I’m trying to do. _Start_ my life.”

“You just finished school?” he guessed.

“Yes. Well, conservatory. Boarded there for high school. The Fox-Lane Conservatory. It’s a feeder for the New England School of Music and the New England Symphony Orchestra, in case you didn’t know.”

“Can’t say as I did.”

“Well, it is. So, yep, all cut and dried. All tidied away. All planned out. That’s me.”

“Hey.” He hated to see anyone like this and looked away while she dabbed her eyes with a tissue from her bag. He moved the chair at his back so she could recline against it too, alongside him. He figured him just being there, just listening, might help. After a few seconds, she did lean back, her shoulder touching his.

“And then?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s not New York, you’re thinking? Well, to broaden my horizons—slightly—I taught extra-mural summer school there at the School of Music. Just holiday courses for children, not the academic program…despite any impression my billing here might give.”

You _might have given,_ Mike judged by the way she couldn’t meet his eye. But he couldn’t censure her for that. He and the group indulged in enough ‘embellished’ talking up of their resume themselves.

“Some community scheme for kids to try out music. But it got me to the city and it came with housing, in the school’s residence hall. Which was awful. Sheltered. Like school.” She giggled, suddenly. “There’s fish in this pond! They’re nibbling my toes!”

Mike peered down to see fat orange fish around her white feet. He stretched to stroke a slow finger into the water to tickle a slimy belly, and after a second, Grace copied him. Seemed to be a day for getting up close with animals.

“Don’t get me wrong—I do love music,” Grace said, suddenly.

“I know.” He’d seen it. “So you learned all that doh-ray-me-please-go-far-away stuff? And music theory?”

She grinned at the old in-joke. “Oh, you did too?”

“No. Pete did. Told me that,” Mike admitted.

“I did, yes. And played in the Pre-College Orchestra. But there might be other things I’d like to do! I discovered I’m fascinated by acting, for one thing, and I’m really interested in design, the new mixed-media techniques, for another. And there’s other types of music to discover!”

“Like folk music.” Mike was thinking of Greenwich Village.

“Yeah, and I got turned on to psychedelic folk music in San Francisco. Acid folk. It’s _mind_ -blowing!”

“Literally, I bet.” She looked good, animated, her brown eyes sparkling now. A bit like Melodie. “Oh, here.” He handed over the passes he’d picked up from her spilled bag. The hotel and Monumental Studio. A different sort of pass to the temporary bits of paper he and the others had been given.

“I told you, about possible work with the orchestra there?” His eyes must have asked the question. “Seems they might need a harp and a lute for the incidental and theme music on that Tudor time travel flick!”

“Seems there ain’t no escape from _Kathryn of Oregon_ ,” came Mike’s philosophical reply.

Grace flushed a little. “I’m not proud or a snob. I have to work, to support myself. I’m not taking anything from my parents. They’re disappointed in me. Despairing of me. Angry with me. My mother’s Mary Cason. Mary Cason Benning?” She laughed, a genuine peel of mirth, at the shrug he gave. “That’s so refreshing. In her world, our world, she’s a well-known classical pianist. Was, more than is, I should say. She mostly gave it up, when she married Dad. Because of me. To have me.”

“And she never lets you forget it?” Mike guessed.

“I don’t want to be stuck in a life of wanted to, was planning to, almost did, you know?” Her outburst startled the fish and they shot away in a fizz of elongated orange streaks.

“I know.” He did, really. Mike pulled her in to him for a one-armed hug. He figured she needed it, for all she was skittish, and she was at first, before relaxing into his warmth and solidity. And that was all he offered. This was no attempt to get her hung up on him. Her puffed-up bun of hair tickled his neck and chin and the ends of the handful of metal hairpins she’d shoved in it pressed into him. He inhaled her scent—shampoo or perfume, he didn’t know. Some flower, but not roses, he didn’t think. It was delicate and sweet, like after bath time. Talcum powder, it reminded him off. “I know. I see that. So here you are, doing this.”

“I suppose I’m a hypocrite—” She made a half-hearted effort to wriggle free, but Mike tightened his hold, and she subsided. “I used conservatory connections to get the teaching job in June.”

“And you did the job when you were there,” Mike pointed out. “And it was a step on your journey, and doing it showed you something you liked better, the next step to take. Like Pete.” He’d set out for LA after being in Greenwich Village. “Hey, funny if you were neighbors, only at different times. Did you live near him? He was just off…Howard Street, I think he said.”

“Oh no, that’s the ritzy end! All those toney lofts. Huge, nice, you know?”

“Oh?” Didn’t sound like Peter. Mike must’ve gotten the name of the street wrong. “So, Frisco, you mentioned?”

“Yeah. Liverpool-by-the-Bay, they call it. Last month. Sort of unexpectedly.” Now she did pull away and twisted from the waist, to face him. “And you’re right about steps on a journey. Playing at Village basket houses gave me the guts to busk in Frisco. And I took part in free mic night at the Bubble’n’Speak _and_ got on stage at the Midnight Till Late!”

“I wish I had.” Mike meant it. “Oh, you should go to Monday night at the Troubadour, here on the Strip – or were you there already, on Monday?”

She nodded, her eyes shining. “Just to listen—I wouldn’t dare try and get on the bill. And it was amazing! The thought of getting up on that stage… In Frisco I was mostly filling in with the San Francisco Orchestra, and the woman I was standing in for also had a gig at the Garden Court in the Palace Hotel, so I stood in for her there too, and parlayed that into this.”

“And this is fine.” Or so it seemed. Grace’s light orchestral music and show and movie tunes had gotten even the snooty-looking society ladies tapping their feet and humming. “It seems popular, a good selling point for the tea room?”

“I didn’t know what else to do here, so I suggested it.” She shrugged. “I don’t have any connections here.”

“You got friends.”

“Yes. I’m lucky there. So that’s the story of me, Mike. Such as there is.” She spread out her hands, palms up. “I just…want to _live_ , you know? Here, it’s so— The energy, the vibe, the music! The thought of being involved in some aspect of design that’s music related, like those art nouveau concert posters I saw in Frisco. Or clicking with other musicians, at a happening and, wow, getting a group together? It’s…”

“Yeah. It is. And you’re doing all right, kiddo.”

“Grace!” But her correction held more amusement than exasperation. “And not really. I’m naïve. I found out afterward that the guy I was singing with in the Village didn’t actually want to be performing with me or even really like me. He was told he’d get more gigs and more money with a pretty girl in his act. Charming, no?”

She suddenly reddened and dropped her gaze from Mike, then slipped her feet free of the water. Mike could hardly offer any words of comfort—he hadn’t wanted to be in an act with her either. Before he could think of anything to say, footsteps behind them made them turn.

“Yo, dudes.” The bar guy bent low to trickle more brandy into Grace’s glass. “They’re looking for you. I told them you were lying down ’cause you were bleeding. Like, from the nose. Nose bleeding?”

“Thank you,” Grace replied when she’d figured out what the guy meant. “And thanks for this.” She sipped her drink. “I’d better get back. Mike…you, well, could stay for the rest of the session, if you liked, I mean? You can have my complimentary cup of tea and fancy cake!”

“Thanks. And kiddo, I don’t need a bribe to listen to you. Well, except for one thing.”

Mike waited until she’d stopped shaking her feet dry so he had her full attention. He hated that what he was going to bring up would probably cause her distress, but he’d been adding one and one and two and two from all through the day together…and coming up with a number he didn’t like. He didn’t want to press but figured he’d better. Grace needed to talk about it. “I want you to tell me why you were so spooked by what you thought was a tall, thickset dark-haired guy lying in wait for you.”

“I…”

He put a finger under her chin when she went to duck her head, just like he did to Peter, when he was trying to shy away from something. Grace slid his finger away but kept all of hers gripped around it.

“Mike…that’s a whole other story. It’s…”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I… Fine _._ ” Her exhalation was long and loud. “After?”

“After.”

Grace squeezed his fingers—he betted she wasn’t aware she was doing it—then dropped his hand to slip on her shoes and grab her bag. He didn’t like being the one to prod away at this, this whatever it was, but seemed it had fallen to him to take care of her.

He stuck out an elbow, like Pete had done earlier, for her to loop her arm through and led her not back inside the bar, because that had distressed her, but along the length of the veranda to return to the, God help him, living slice of the past that was the Palm Court. He could endure it once again, and for longer, to get to the bottom of what, or, more accurately, _who_ , had terrorized this kid, Grace.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Peter couldn’t stop himself from springing to his feet when a key scraped in the lock in the late afternoon and Mike came in. He did manage, however, to to bite back any exclaimed, “ _Michael!_ ” and variant on _where the hell_ or _where in heck_ , hard though that was, instead asking a simple, “Where have you been?”

“I tried to call twice. It was engaged.” Mike checked the phone, listening to the dial tone and replacing the receiver on its cradle.

“It’s been going non-stop.” Peter approached Mike.

“You mean, cor blimey, guv’nor, it’s been like Piccadilly Circus in ’ere?”

Mike’s terrible Davy impression brought its usual grin to Peter’s lips.

“I never figured out why we’d need to go with an imported circus, when it’s usually enough of one in here at the best of times, you know? I left a message back at the location.” Mike must have read the question on Peter’s face. “Didn’t you get it?”

“The one saying you’d split? Yeah, but we’d kind of figured that out.”

Peter blocked Mike’s path to the sofa and came in close to greet Mike…properly. That Mike responded without demur, in a heartbeat, had Peter smiling against his lips. He inhaled, detecting notes of lily of the valley and jasmine and a tiny brush of lilac. He quite liked the perfume and had been trying all afternoon to recall the name. Nina, in the Mountain Clouds, the folk group for which he did session work, wore it, so he could ask her. Or he betted he could find it easily in the cosmetics section of a department store. Well, that didn’t matter. What did matter was that it was the scent Grace had worn in the club last night and earlier today, meaning Mike had been in very close proximity to her not long ago.

He pulled back, assessing the small curl to Mike’s lips, the softened light in his brown eye—the same look he wore when playing father figure to Micky and Davy. “Yep, figured it out with you being gone and all,” Peter repeated and waited.

“Yeah. I went after Grace. She wasn’t feeling good—” Mike stopped speaking to open his mouth obediently under Peter’s, when Peter clasped a hand around the back of Mike’s head to kiss him deep.

“Right. So you got her a restorative brandy…”

“Napoleon.”

“Wellington. Oh, sorry.” Peter shook his head. “Force of habit.” He wondered at the sudden mote of speculation that gleamed in Mike’s eyes. “I’m guessing she wasn’t that bad if you finished the brandy yourself.” Because the flavor was too strong to have been acquired…any other way. “She’s okay?” he pressed.

“Yeah.” Mike laughed. “She has this fuddy-duddy afternoon gig—”

“In a tea house?” It would explain the jasmine note, the residual tang of China tea—fresher than the mellow fruit of the cognac—to Mike’s taste.

“Tea court thing, yeah.” Mike frowned

“But she’s okay?” Peter was growing tired of prodding.

“Not…totally.”

“So you stayed with her.” Peter turned away to straighten his book and magazines on the low table while he visualized what could have draped this mantle of caring around Mike’s shoulders. Grace, opening her big brown eyes wide—no, why would she? She’d gotten the job and Michael had agreed to work with her. No need to persuade him. What did she need from him, then?

“Hey, where are the others?” Mike asked, breaking Peter’s furious stream of thought.

“Getting ready.” He double-pointed to the downstairs bathroom and bedroom.

“For?”

“Church.”  Davy, hair in a neat side parting, smart suit on, came out of the bathroom.

“ _Church?_ ” Mike’s eyes bugged.

“Church,” Micky, similarly coiffured and suited, repeated, emerging from his room.

“ _Ch-church?_ ” Mike stuttered, swivelling his head from one to another.

“Wouldya look at that. We broke him,” Micky informed Davy.

“Had to happen one day,” Davy replied. The pair shook hands, holding them high and making like they’d banged their noses in doing so.

Peter helped Mike sit. “Get him some water, guys? It’s not that strange, Michael.”

“It really is.” Mike blinked. “Wait. There’s a chick involved, right?”

“Yeah, a really hot nun, Mike.” Micky rolled his eyes. “No, well, yeah, in that Deandra’s taking us. It’s as if you saying you’d call her made her call, which makes you think there’s something in this wish’n’pray-for-stuff stuff, you know what I mean?”

“Not really.” Mike gulped down half the cup of water. “But then I rarely do know what _you_ mean. Go on?”

“She called to say they were filming a segment of _Hubbub_ right here, on the beach, At the pier. So we went along and got talking in her break.”

He looked as surprised as Mike did. Talking, and about religion, wasn’t usually an activity or a topic that figured largely with Mick and the chicks he dated.

“So she’s taking us to her spirit church to pray for what we want. You imagine it and you get it! It’s affirmative action. Or something. We’re gonna—”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Micky. It’s not like dropping a quarter in a vending machine,” Peter tried again to caution. “And I really don’t think you have the terminology right.”

“ _Hubbub_? Oh, did you—”

“Yep. Plugged us for the new local music showcase slot, _LA Live_. And told them we’d be on _TripleH_ ,” Micky assured Mike.

“Will we, Mike?” Davy stared hard at him.

“Well, on that subject, you might be interested to know I spent the afternoon with Grace,” Mike replied.

“ _Hot damn!_ ” Micky clutched Davy. “It’s working already!”

“Don’t say that in church. And don’t sign anything.” Mike looked from Davy to Micky. “Clear? And, hey, wait up a sec, guys.” He stood and made a grab for Micky before he could leave, then reached for Peter. “Grace…she’s just a kid. Literally. Younger than you, Mick. She’s, well, sheltered, I suppose. Not clued in. And she’s a chick…”

Peter watched him sorting through his words. “What happened?” he asked, his voice soft.

“It was her first time away from home. She was having a blast performing in the Village, hanging out with the people in the coffee houses and bars, and got talking to a guy, a club owner in Malibu. She wanted to come out to the beach for the summer—wants to surf.”

Peter tried not to frown at the soft half-smile tugging at one side of Mike’s mouth. “And?”

“Well, this guy offered her work, in his club. In one of its rooms, a cocktail bar space. Good money, accommodation provided, gave her an advance so she could fly down. Picked her up from the airport and took her there. Only when she got there…”

“I can guess,” Davy butted in. He’d seen all sorts, on Broadway and even here in LA, at the Pavilion of the Music Center, Peter knew. “Not so much a cabaret-type club as a gentleman’s club, yeah? Only, not really gentlemen? And the owner wasn’t that interested in her for her music ability?”

“Yeah. Although he was into her little-girl act, shall we say.”

“So it was…hostess work?” Peter tried to be diplomatic. “With the accommodation being on the premises?”

Mike nodded. “It was a shock and she, erm, split right away. Just turned straight around, went back to the airport and waited for a flight to where she had friends she could crash with.”

“And the guy wasn’t best pleased.” Davy nodded “Wants her, what, to repay the cash he laid out?”

“Oh, I guess.”

“And not mention it, probably,” Micky added. “ _It_ being illegal here.”

“Yeah. So, just, well, we gotta look out for her, you know?”

“Sure.” Micky tilted his head at the car horn sounding outside. “But we gotta jet.”

“Hey, seriously, don’t sign anything and don’t give any money!” Mike called after them. “Well, to the collection plate, sure, but don’t sign anything to do with money!”

Peter waited until the door was closed after them and Mike had calmed down. He wondered how much he should say. Mike wasn’t unaware of his need to protect and _swaddle_ , almost. _Mother_ , practically. He couldn’t be—Peter had pointed it out to him several times now, and Mike was trying to curb it…with them, the other three. But nature abhorred a vacuum. Oh, Peter didn’t doubt Grace was vulnerable: new city, new job, new circle. All reasons she’d perhaps—subconsciously—seek out a protective…brotherly figure. If only Mike could keep it to that degree—

“Now they’ve gone…”

 _Damn._ That Mike felt there was something he couldn’t say in front of the others showed this had made him backslide. “If there’s more, tell me,” he said. Then cold squeezed his heart. “Is it…more about Grace and y—”

“Nothing like that. _God!_ ” Hurt dripped from Mike. “Just, the guy… Grace didn’t exactly have a friendly chat with him. He got mad when she told him she was out of there. Said she’d deceived him, had used him, he’d been waiting on her promise, and she owed him. That being the case, he’d take payment right now—”

“Oh, Michael, no.”

“No, not— But this is the bad part. She pushed him off her and kicked out at him at the same time, caught his knee, and he stumbled. Staggered and fell back. Hit his head on the edge of the marble bar, bounced to the floor and just lay there, bleeding.”

“ _What?_ ” Peter could hardly believe it. “He wasn’t—”

“No. She says she felt a pulse. But she panicked. Grabbed his keys, burnt rubber in his car, and ditched it at the airport. Called the club to say where his ride was, when she was getting on the plane.”

“But the guy—”

“Still alive, and okay.” Mike shrugged. “She said she kept checking news reports and obituaries all last month, when she was in San Francisco, and there was nothing. But the kind of guy he is…When she called, from the airport, his deputy answered and told her that she’d pay for what she did. It could’ve been empty words, but she feels she took a risk in returning to LA and she’s been spooked by stuff ever since she came back here. She’s kinda scared—”

“Michael, this is unbelievable.” Peter meant it literally. It read like something from a penny shocker…and probably was. But why? Okay, Mike wasn’t making it up as any kind of cover as to why he’d had to spend time with Grace. As insecure as Peter was, he knew that wasn’t it. Mike loved him. Wanted him. Wanted _him_. But this bizarre story needed challenging, analysing…only he didn’t want to get into a fight with Mike over it. Not here and not now.

 _So just drop it,_ he told himself. _If I do, Mike might._ Okay, not the healthiest approach to take… He would get to the bottom of it, he promised himself…just not this minute. And he had an excuse—time was short right now and _don’t be a stone drag._ That order Mike had once given him still pricked a little each time Peter forced himself to recall it, although the thistle-sting was growing less and less sharp with each grasp. _Thankfully. So…_ “Seen the note?” Peter jerked his chin at it.

“What? No, and I could’ve missed it! I’m always saying to write messages on the big sheets of paper! And why’s it all scribbled over?” Mike frowned at the small note, and Peter was glad the switch in topic had channelled Mike’s attention…and tension.

“Well, it’s several messages all for you and all the same. That’s why it’s underlined—that’s how many times they called.” It made sense to Peter.

“ _About_ the Agency? Not from the agency? And capital A Agency?” Mike tapped the paper.

“It _sounded_ capital, the way she said it. Which— Mike?” He’d frozen, a little, but Peter caught it. “Said you knew the number,” he goaded.

“I…’d better call. Not that I know the number…” Mike muttered to himself.

 _More mystery?_ The only agency Peter could recall they’d had to do with recently was the one that had hired them as extras for a party, but he didn’t think that was this. No. He took a breath. Mike was always busy following up leads and trying to get them work and contacts. Peter was letting this weird situation with Grace color things. And yes, it was wild and needed thinking about, but he had other things on this mind right now, and he was on the clock.

He relished the way that the sight of him ten minutes later, changed into his tux with his hair slicked back off his face, affected Mike in an instant. Mike, sitting holding the phone and staring into the middle distance as if in a daze, replaced the receiver and stood, following him to the bandstand. Peter made sure to bend over rather than squat from his knees, in casing his bass, peeking to see if Mike was actually drooling.

“Wait—you’re going out?” Mike gestured at Peter’s evening clothes.

“Uh-huh. Working. Last minute. I told you it was like Piccadilly Circus in here today. You remember I told you about Jools’ silly accident? The doctor said to rest a couple more days still, so the guys asked—”

“Out till late?”

“Er, yes.” Peter cased his banjo too. “And I need the car. Okay?”

“But what time will you get back?”

Peter stood and regarded Mike. “That’s three down. Means seventeen to go. To make twenty?”

“Heh.” Mike acknowledged the hit. “Sorry, babe. It’s been a whirl of a day.”

“They all are,” Peter replied.

“With you, yeah. Come here, darlin’.”

Mike took Peter’s bass and banjo from him to set them down. Before Peter could ask why, Mike grasped his hips and pulled him close, until Peter’s body was snug against his. Holding eye contact so that Peter could see his eyes darken, his intent made clear, Mike lowered his head, slowly, until his lips pressed against Peter’s. He moved his mouth over Peter’s, his touch sure, confident of Peter’s response. _Demanding a response._ He surprised Peter with a bite to his lower lip, making him gasp, and as soon as Peter opened his mouth, Mike slipped his tongue between Peter’s lips.

Peter felt fabric between his fingers and realized he’d pulled Mike’s shirt free of his pants and was bunching it in his hands, crumpling it in time with the call and response of Mike’s tongue in his mouth. Why do that when he could slide his hands over the skin of Mike’s back he’d bared? Mike’s skin was soft where his body was hard, a perfect contrast. Within seconds, the ridge of his cock pressed into Peter’s belly, making him gasp again, the sound this time subsumed in the kiss.

Lost in the kiss. _Like I am,_ came Peter’s thought. When Mike raised his head, Peter had to stifle a whimper at the loss. It gratified him to see Mike’s pupils were dilated and that his chest rose and fell with a sharpness, a harshness, that it didn’t normally.

“Missed you this afternoon,” Mike whispered, right into Peter’s ear, delivering a soft lick and a sharp nip to the very tip in that way that was so unfair because he knew, none better, how it affected Peter.

“And you really learned your technique—which is _devastating_ , by the way—in a kissing booth at a county fair?” Peter queried, not for the first time, his face given over to a soft grin.

“Told ya I did.”

“But buying…or selling?” Peter inquired.

“That I’m not telling.” Mike’s eyes were softer again, when he looked down, their edges crinkled. “Hey, hadn’t you better go? You don’t wanna be late.”

 _If he’s smirking, I’ll…understand._ It would be justified. “If I can walk. Huh, whirl of a day _and_ a whirl of an evening. And it’s barely started,” Peter replied.

At least, Peter’s head was whirling, as he left, Mike’s kiss still on his lips, whirling too much to make sense of the bizarre story Grace had told Mike and every word of which he seemed to believe—or need to.

It was only as Peter neared his destination, that he suddenly wondered if rendering him incapable of processing had been Mike’s intention…making his kiss one of a very different kind, one Peter didn’t like at all, although he disliked himself more, for even thinking that.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Peter pulled himself together as he stationed the car in the employees’ section of the lot at Renier’s, taking deep breaths of the early evening Hollywood air. Despite his preoccupation with what had happened, at what Mike seemed to believe, this commitment Peter had taken on demanded and deserved his full attention. Carrying his instruments, he made his way down to the basement and the practice room there that doubled as the dressing room and the rest lounge for the group.

“Hey there, Rev. Nice to see you.”

The hands-together salute Birdy gave along with his greeting looked like a prayer position. Peter chose not to take it as a chop on him being late.

“I’m Rev, now?” he asked. Greeting the others and inquiring after the hapless Jools, he tried to recall all the twists and turns of the evolution of his nickname to its current iteration, in the Sycamore Jazz Trio, then Quartet, Quintet and now Ensemble. Did he even know how the others had come by theirs? While some were obvious, such as the tall, broad yet gangly man in front of him being Birdy from his given name of John, by way of Little John and then Robin, he couldn’t remember the last permutations to his own.

“He’s not ‘Uncle’ no more?” queried Loop.

At least he wasn’t the only clueless one. “But you know, I really was mistaken for David McCallum, dressed like this.” Peter indicated the black and white tuxedo and his swept-back dark-blond hair.

“Yeah, yeah.” Birdy finished smoothing pomade into his thick black curls and offered the small red tin to Peter. “And I was for Robert Vaughan.”

A chorus of catcalls and raspberries greeted this and a response of “More like Stephanie Powers.” By the way Loop batted away the balled-up newspaper Birdy aimed his way, Peter supposed the quip had been his.

Peter finished combing a fingertip’s worth of peach-smelling wax through his hair to hold back his bangs and took out his bass to tune it and try a few chords. “Set list the same as last time?” he asked the Judge, bandleader, or musical director, to receive a reply of “more or less,” and a scrawled list of pieces. Peter studied the chicken scratch handwriting. He knew the drill—start with aural wallpaper and thicken the sound to stand out more and more as the evening wore on and the diners loosened up, all the while keeping the relaxed tempo and light tone of the cool jazz.

“You know you’re probably breaking union rules?” Loop called across.

That made Peter pause. The union didn’t have rules about segregation, did it? Mike would know. He knew the regs down to the last comma. Maybe he should have checked.

“Doing it for no fee?” Loop continued.

 _Oh._ Peter shrugged. Even if they thought he was being patronizing, or “fine folk,” he was giving his fee to Jools, who’d probably need it for his medical bill. “Like I told you when you let me sit in on the open jam session, this is like a masterclass for me.”

“Ha! You should be payin’ us then, boy!”

“You used to gettin’ paid for your ‘services’, eh?” came Birdy’s riff on Loop’s comment.

Peter grinned. Who did they remind him of? Maybe every band everywhere was the same. “It’s great to play with musicians who’re better than me. It teaches me a lot, makes me work harder. And it’s great to do something different. More classical.”

“ _Classical?_ ” scoffed Loop, blowing a quick shake on his sax.

“Yes. I like the formal arrangements to cool jazz. And I love harmonies so I dig all the counterpoint.”

“Yeah, that fugue you played blew me away,” Buzz acknowledged.

“Cat knows where it’s at,” Birdy told the room at large.

“You know I play mostly rock and roll, or folk and roll, which is all chordal.” Peter plucked a quick major and a minor chord. “So it’s good to play modal stuff.” He played a major and minor scale, looking forward to working out and soloing with the guys, getting the bass to sound more like an upright bass, using palm-muting to shorten the sustain time of the notes as he picked them. He’d practiced doing it using a pick and wanted to try it without, doing down-strokes with his thumb.

“So you’re singing for your supper?” The Judge found it amusing.

“Hope so! The food’s boss here. I can take some back for the others.” If the restaurant was as generous with the helpings this week as they had been last time, and there was no reason to suppose it wouldn’t be.

By the time Peter had confirmed a few more details of the running order and times with the Judge and the others, it was time to head to the stage, which he did with the rest of them, even though he could have taken the elevators and main route. He did take advantage of having a free run of the place to ascend the ornate staircase to what he thought of as the upper deck, what with the main floor being like the prow of a ship, pointing to the stage.

The cocktail lounge on the top floor wrapped around the entire space and he always wanted to come up when Renier’s was full, to see how the people looked on the deck below, seated at the tables or around the long rectangular bar in the middle of the floor, or dancing near the stage. He could see how the stage looked from up on high like this, but what did look like full, with a group playing?

“What’s on tonight?” he asked the Judge when he reached him. The Wednesday live music dinner dances that the ensemble played for at this well-known Hollywood restaurant usually saw a lot of industry people, and a sprinkling of stars.

“Big booking from a TV network. Chairman’s birthday or anniversary or some big thing, with sponsors invited to thank them and keep ’em keepin’ on sponsoring. And wooing more sponsors for next season.” The Judge straightened from tightening a screw in the organ’s wooden pedalboard. “You happy with your solo spots? Got more than last time.”

“Yes.” He’d proved himself, with the group. He had to admit he enjoyed the solos. Playing bass with a rock group, he was lucky if he got a few short bass breaks. Mike was writing songs that gave him more solo lines, true, but with a jazz ensemble, a bassist got longer and improvised solos. He also appreciated that when accompanying, his basslines did more than establish the beat and keep it there. They drove the pieces, setting the swing and laying down the groove in a fuller, bigger way. And yet folk music and not jazz had called to him.

“And you’re happy comping on banjo too?” The Judge patted the Hammond. “I reckon her bass pedals’ll hold out for a walking bassline on a few numbers, free you up? I’d like to see how that blends, in a big area like this, not just a rehearsal room.”

“Sure.” Peter too was curious to hear how the banjo would sound, played more subdued, and in this high-ceilinged space. “And organ, if you like.”

“Tryin’ to do me out of a job?” The Judge looked scandalized, then clapped him on the shoulder and laughed.

He hoped no one would ask why he was smothering a laugh during his first solo: he’d just remembered the jazz term for soloing was ‘blowing’, and he was juvenile enough to find it funny. He’d described the vibe of the pad more than once as ‘frat house’; well, seemed the humor had soaked him right through. Renier’s had a mellow vibe, probably because it was a more informal brasserie-style eaterie. Guests flowed around the spaces, diners taking breaks from their tables to stroll to the bar in the center for a change of scene, or a temporary escape.

“He’s happy,” Peter commented to the others at the smile on the Judge’s face as he surveyed the floor.

“Sure! Couples dancing already? That’s how the management measures a group’s popularity here,” Birdy replied.

“Means he’s gonna ask for more,” Loop added, making the universal sign for money. “Sorry you ain’t in on the cut now?”

Peter shook his head. “Is that the VIP table?”

He gestured to the one he thought must hold the TV network party. It was a bigger setting, for one thing, probably a few tables pushed together, and most of its guests a little older and paunchier than those at other tables, and most of them more formally dressed. Maybe the sponsors were from out of town? Whatever, they all looked lively, eating, drinking and coming to dance.

They’d been playing for a while, the evening drawing on, when Peter realized his gaze was being pulled that way more and more. He caught hold of what he was doing, puzzled out why he was peering over. _Oh._ He was gazing at one of the diners there—no two, a couple. Not that he could see them well, down the far end of the table, but the woman had an elaborate piled-up caramel-blonde hairstyle and the guy, turned away from Peter, was dark-haired.

He bent attentively to the woman, so it was impossible to see how tall he was. He leaned close, creating a proximity between the two of them, perhaps telling her a joke or a story. Something that had her head angled toward his, their faces seeming to touch. Peter enjoyed people watching and now spared a moment to create a story for this couple, to explain why the rest of the table was eyeing them. She must be beautiful, her escort handsome, the two of them catching everyone’s fancy, or maybe their fellow diners envied their complicity, the vibe between them.

Peter glanced down at his bass for a second, and when he looked across again, the woman was rising to her feet, her partner bent over her chair to assist her. A drift of other guests blocked Peter’s view of the man as the couple neared the front of the restaurant, but the woman looked familiar.

“You catch her show?” Birdy, following Peter’s eyeline, asked. “She’s meaner than a wasp. Sounds mad at anyone who writes in with a problem, like they’re bothering her! Or that they’re beneath her.”

“She works that schoolmarm vibe,” Buzz chipped in. “Giving orders, getting off on telling cats what to do.”

“They get off on it too, mind,” the Judge pronounced, making a face. “Folks…like it.”

Initially confused, Peter got it when the woman made her way toward near the stage to dance and he saw it was Dr. Lorene Sisters, who had that agony column type show on KLM-TV. She’d lost some of her severity and reserve now and was throwing her head back to laugh in amusement. She was a good dancer, too, and moving well in the arms of her partner, the tall brunet guy. He held her close now, Strange, he looked—

“Rev? _Peter?_ ” asked the Judge, the others staring at Peter, various degrees of concern on their faces. Not that he registered them—his brain had seized up, which had made his fingers slip on his bass and produce that loud, discordant jangle. How could it do otherwise, when he realized that the man with the woman, a guy looking extra tall and slim and long-legged in his tuxedo, and extra Texan in a Western shirt with pearl snaps, and a bolo tie instead of a bowtie, was… _Mike_?

 _I don’t recognize that shirt and tie. Never seen them in the pad’s communal wardrobe_ , Peter found himself thinking stupidly, his brain stirring back to life and bolting onto that unknown rather than face the familiar in front of him, and worse, a familiar who’d looked at the stage on hearing the harsh missed note…and seen Peter. Because Peter would rather not have seen this.

 _No. I’m being stupid._ There could have been a hundred explanations for Mike being out with a woman, one to whom he was showing marked attention…and a good time. Fine, so this was no classic misunderstanding of seeing a guy out with a girl who turned out to be his sister or a female cousin—Peter knew damn well this woman wasn’t.

The explanation Peter’s mind leaped to was not pleasure, but business—Central Intelligence Services business—and the reason for that being Mike looked…in disguise in some way. _Costumed for a part._ But it didn’t matter how quickly this tendril of hope shot through Peter—it couldn’t take root. Not when Peter knew all of Mike’s expressions and could read what stared back at him from Mike’s face right then and there.

Peter might have expected nervousness, at Peter’s reaction to discovering Mike had taken on an assignment without telling Peter, after Mike making secret, unilateral decisions had almost ripped them apart before.

He might have expected fear, after all the heated discussions they’d had about openness and honesty and consulting the other and how Peter had felt when Mike presented him with a _fait accompli_ and what he’d threatened to do if Mike did this again. Mike was on his last chance.

But no. Those weren’t the emotions staring up at him. No, what Peter was witnessing was _shame_ coupled with _guilt._ And he could only assume at having been caught out.

If Peter been capable of any thought, it would have been a petty one, that it gave him a jolt of satisfaction to see Mike stumble and almost trip over his own feet then narrowly avoid stepping on his partner’s on seeing Peter. But it gave him no satisfaction at all to find Mike’s gaze locked with his as he became rooted to the spot, the first strike of guilt blunting to consternation, one that jammed his body rigid. His partner— _ha!_ —circled to face him, getting her hands to his shoulders, but still Mike stared unblinkingly at Peter, in an attempt to communicate… _what?_

Peter had no idea. He tore his gaze away and focused on his bass, on his fingers on the fretboard. If his playing was lacklustre, his bandmates didn’t complain, instead picking up the slack, rallying around, extemporizing more vividly, louder and faster, maybe. It didn’t really sink in with Peter. All he could hear was his own thoughts, and all they revolved around was Mike. Well, no, Mike and his, what, _date_? His _woman_? And not really that, more the closeness between them. _How— What—_

They were seated again now, but their distance from Peter didn’t help him. He still saw that look of guilt on Mike’s face writ as large as if Mike still stood before him. Would he make an excuse and leave the woman, come to Peter? It…didn’t look like it. Peter’s head was buzzing now, as opposed to the spinning of earlier, when Mike—had checked how late Peter would be staying out. Huh. Yeah, that made sense, even if nothing else did.

“Hey. C’mon.” A hand clapped him on the back and Peter jumped. Birdy and Buzz eyeballed him. “Interval.”

“And I have no idea what’s wrong, but you can take off. We’re near as damnit finished. We can handle the rest,” the Judge added, nodding at the others to collect Peter’s instruments and cases.

“The bass position in this ensemble must be goddamn cursed,” intoned Loop.

Peter made his obedient way out, via backstage, his reaction see-sawing from _I misinterpreted_ to _how could he_ and _how could he what?_ while his emotions swung from confusion to hurt to anger to land back on confusion again, with _why didn’t he tell me he was doing this…whatever this is?_ clanging loud and strident.

He drove slowly home and left the car in its usual spot, taking his instruments from it and entering the house with deliberate care. “Micky? Davy?” he called out, using it as an excuse to make sure his voice was under control. It seemed to be, although there was no answer, and a quick search showed the pad was empty. _Okay, then._ Peter settled down to wait.

And later, when a car engine throbbed and halted outside and Mike came in, it was to find the pad in darkness and Peter still sitting where he’d dropped down on the chair, illuminated in a soft pool of light.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Texscort ahoy

The scent of Mike’s cologne tickled Peter’s nose, and he inhaled, working out from the aftershave’s vanished citrus opening notes and the way its middle floral had given way to the woody basenotes—oakmoss, he recalled—how long ago Mike had applied it and how much he’d splashed on. When he looked up at Mike, standing shadowed just outside Peter’s muted pearlescent circle of light, Peter’s gaze snagged on the Stetson Mike wore. Like his shirt and tie, still visible under his kept-for-best fringed brown suede jacket, the hat was something Peter hadn’t seen before. It looked real. Proper. _Texan,_ he supposed.

At Peter’s scrutiny, Mike skimmed the hat from his head and twisted it around in his hands before casting it down onto the table. His posture and face screamed _wary_. Peter got in first, keeping his tone neutral. “Was there a reason you didn’t tell me you’d be doing…whatever the hell it was you were doing?”

“It was last-minute.”

Peter weighed Mike’s reply and found it wanting. His glance at the telephone, as if seeing Mike there, using it, when Peter had still been in the pad, said as much.

“And I didn’t know how to. I _don’t_ know how to,” Mike added.

Peter nodded acknowledgment of the unspoken _but I’m trying_ that hung in the waiting air. “Don’t people normally start by saying ‘It’s not what it looks like’?” he queried. “But that wouldn’t work here, because I don’t even know what to _think_ it looks like.”

“I…well, I can bet. _Peter._ ” Like the cologne, the note in Mike’s voice had changed, just as the shadows about him changed when he stepped forward and knelt at Peter’s feet, which brought him under the lamp light. “Before, well, anything, just look at this. Please.” He passed over a rectangle of card, like a calling card or a business card, from his pocket. Curious, Peter took it and examined it under the light of the bulb.

“ _Herpes?_ The _fuck_ , Mike? You mean—”

“ _Shit!_ Fuck, _no_! _Damnit._ Peter—this.”

Peter read the words on the second oblong. “I’m none the wiser, and no better informed,” he confessed, pushed back to the careful language of his childhood and youth, something necessary to employ when speaking with his university professor father.

“Sure you are, Pete. You remember phonics, right?” It seemed Peter’s thoughts of childhood had been visible to Mike. “Sound the syllables out.”

Peter tried, his glance flickering from the strange word on the card to the name of the agency, then back to the word again.

“And don’t forget Look and See…” Mike’s tone sounded rueful, dragging Peter’s gaze from where he was dutifully separating the syllables out, to see Mike give a flick to the unfamiliar bolo tie and tap the Stetson.

“Texas?” Peter meant Mike’s garb. “This says Tex…scorts.” His imagination was taking over, wasn’t it? “Because with what I’m thinking, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have preferred the herpes. _Michael._ ” He had to ask, when Mike remained silent, waiting. “ _Escort?_ Tell me I’m wrong. That I’m being stupid. Please.”

“Can’t do that, because you’re not. Either thing. You’re smart, Pete. But not just escorts…”

“Texas—”

“Escorts, yeah.” Mike slipped on the Stetson and tipped it back with two fingers. “Howdy.”

“Don’t you _dare_ make a joke out of this.” Peter’s voice shook, despite him trying to control it. He knocked the hat from Mike’s head. “You don’t mean you—”

“Pete. I’m— Sorry.” Mike ran his hand over his mouth. “I’m repaying a favor to a friend. I never heard of this thing, this agency, until a week or so back. The escort got stomach flu, so I filled in with the client at the last minute.” He stayed where he was, his hands on Peter’s knees.

“But your face when I saw you!” Peter burst out. “You looked—”

“Ashamed?” Mike indicated himself with a scoff.

“ _Guilty._ God, it’s not—”

“Hell no! It really is just escorting. Dates, parties, events…with a Texas flavor. Wouldn’t you be damn ashamed?” Mike sat back on his heels.

“I’m not sure. I’m still not sure what this”—Peter swept the hand that still held the business card up and down Mike—“is.”

“You saw me. Filling the lady’s glass for her, pulling out her chair for her, lighting her damn cigarillos, complimenting her on her dress and hair, asking about her life, her job, smiling at her funnies, listening to her opinions…”

“But the southern flavor?” Because this…was _outta sight_. Peter knew a slow smile tried to curve his mouth. “In addition to the manners and the costume, like, the accent? Dialect? Down-home sayings?” He had to laugh.

“Peter, this is strictly confidential,” Mike cautioned. “It’s all really discreet and…” He broke off, laughing too.

“I didn’t know such a thing, this need existed!” Peter spluttered out, his tension dissolving. “Or that there were niche organizations to meet the need! The _Lone Star_ Agency?” He snorted. Then a thought struck. “But this, even the dancing and the arm around her to protect her in the crowd, is just public dates. Yes, I believe you.” He raised a hand to cut off Mike’s protests. “But what if the client wants…more?”

“More?” Mike’s drawl came thick and slow.

“More.” Peter stood, gesturing at Mike to stand too. “Look at you. Dressed like a dream walking. A fucken wet dream.”

“Pete! Where d’you learn—”

He’d picked up worse, hanging out with the Sycamores. He just rarely let it loose. “Sex on legs. Long, lean legs. And that smoldering dark-velvet gaze, that pouty lower lip…” Mike knew how to work them, too.

“Well—”

“Aw, shucks?”

“No. And I guess you’re right. That there are…other service providers, I found out. Full disclosure, Pete. I got given another business card— Hey, quit it!” Mike squirmed but couldn’t evade Peter digging his fingers into his pockets to locate the card and prise it free.

Peter’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. This one he could understand…and kind of wished he couldn’t. ‘“Texas Strangers?”’ he read. ‘“Fulfil your deepest southern fantas—”’ was as far as he got before Mike plucked the rectangle from his fingers.

He took up a lighter, set fire to the white card and dropped the blackened twist into the ashtray, where they both watched it crumble to ash. Mike shuddered. “Can we please never mention any of this again?” he asked.

“Oh no.” Peter stepped up to him, his movements slow and deliberate. “That’s not possible. And not what’s going to happen.” His heart started to race at the risk he was taking, the thought that Mike wouldn’t— “Because after what seeing you stepping out with someone else put me through, I figure you owe me…restitution.” He scooped the hat from the floor and placed it on Mike’s head, watched and waited. Didn’t have to wait long.

“Oh, do you.” Mike slotted his thumbs into his belt loops, throwing the huge shiny belt buckle into prominence, and rocked back on his heels, looking down at Peter from beneath his dark eyelashes. “Ya figure somethin’ high-falutin, do ya? Some fancy town talk…” He circled Peter, coming to a stop behind him to lean in and whisper in his ear, “And just what do you…fancy?”

Peter’s knees already threatened to give out. “You to go full Texan on me.” He was glad he was facing forward. He didn’t think he’d be able to look Mike in the eye while admitting that.

Mike spun him around and raked him with an up-and-down glance, taking him in…assessing his needs. He gave a short bark of laughter along with his tight nod. “Yeah. I reckon it’s time. You’re just about fully broke in now. I can stop goin’ so easy on ya.”

Peter stared, wide-eyed. Was that true? That Mike held back with him?

“I’ve been real patient with you ’cause you were so cherry. Trained you up nice and slow, got you used to getting your ass and mouth fucked on the regular. So yeah. I reckon it’s time you started taking it harder.” Mike circled him again, and his voice came sharp. “Straighten up!”

Peter stiffened, more so when Mike’s hand came around him. A second later Peter heard a snicker, Mike discovering Peter’s posture wasn’t the only thing that had become rigid. The sight of Mike’s hand on him, then the feel of Mike cupping and stroking, had him biting his lip, and Mike’s nip at his earlobe made him whimper. But he couldn’t help feeling confused.

“What, you expect me to just bend you over and fuck the sweet little ass off o’ya?” A wicked tongue tip traced the edge of Peter’s ear, stopping at the top. “Well, I might. After. After you’ve pleased me.” A bite came at his ear seconds before hands turned him around, to move to his shoulders and press down. “I want you on your knees. I want that hot mouth of yours on me. That talented throat rippling all around me.” Mike unzipped.

“ _Here?_ What if the others—”

“You’m best work quick, then.” The hands returned to Peter’s shoulders and forced him to his knees. “Remember what I told you to do, the first time I blew you?”

Peter nodded. “You said, _fuck my mouth_.”

“Yeah.” Mike’s chuckle was low down and dirty. “And you did. You fucked my throat raw, shotgun. And I like to fuck deep, too. In the ass, as you know, ’cause you take it more like a man now…and when I’m getting head.”

 _Oh._ Peter’s dick twitched at the words Mike was pouring over him like dark, thick honey. Mike hadn’t, really, so far…Peter didn’t think. Not when Peter was blowing him. Oh, he thrust, but was always considerate. _Careful._ But tonight…Peter sank low now, at the pressure of Mike’s hands on his head, and fumbled with Mike’s belt, then hooked his fingers inside the waistband of Mike’s tuxedo pants and pulled them down along with his briefs. Mike’s cock sprang out, massive and hard, almost hitting Peter in the face.

He, no, _they_ were doing this. Right here in the pad’s den where they all hung out every day and where the memory, the image, would remain, at first crystal-clear and diamond-sharp, to fade over time or be overlaid with subsequent ones. And where anyone—Micky, Davy, _their dates from church for God’s sake_ —could walk in any minute and see him sucking Mike’s dick. Hear Mike’s dirty, filthy praise…and promises…

“Do you know how good you look on your knees, boy? That those lips were made for my cock and your mouth for me to fuck like I own it?”

And, God, he did, thrusting straight and true to the back of Peter’s throat, making Peter gag and pull free. He tried to buy himself time and seize the lead by licking at the glistening head and the pearl-like drop of pre-cum oozing from its slit. He swirled his tongue around the swollen head then sucked.

“It ain’t no damn ice-cream cone, boy. I said for you to take every inch and take it _deep,_ ” came in a rasp from above him before Mike grabbed him by the hair and forced himself between Peter’s lips. “Eyes on me,” he ordered and Peter tried to comply, although his were watering, especially when Mike pushed in, pumping his hips in short, sharp jabs before he shoved his dick in all the way, as deep as he’d said. Peter fought to breathe through the restriction to his airway and grabbed at Mike’s hips to anchor himself.

He supposed the grip on his head was to make him accept Mike’s cock, then immobilize him, keep him in place, and it took Mike’s, “Hey. Join in,” and his hands spearing into Peter’s hair, pulling his head back and pushing it down again, to make him understand. Understand until he was moving in a deliberate and steady rhythm up and down Mike’s cock, meeting Mike’s thrusts, keeping to the pace he set and aligning with the angle he preferred.

And _Jesus_ , Mike was so hard and so huge that swallowing him down to the root, then sliding back to the crown over and over at this speed and force was _punishing_. Peter wasn’t so much meeting as absorbing his thrusts, his power. And _fuck_ , that Mike was more than guiding him, was _forcing him_ , more than turned Peter on. That and Mike whispering, “Breathe, relax your throat, breathe,” to help Peter through it threatened to turn him inside out. Each gasp and groan he wrung from Mike were praise for his efforts, for the size and girth of the cock he was pleasuring, for the rhythm he was managing to keep, as perfect as any they created when they played together.

Even Mike’s taste, warm, salty and masculine, lit Peter up. The clench of Mike’s fist in his hair, Mike’s moan that filled the pad and his ground out, “ _Fuck, yeah,_ ” had Peter’s dick trying to spurt in his pants. The tautening of Mike’s expression, the tightening of his fingers in Peter’s hair and the change in the tempo of his thrusts told Peter he was about to come, mere seconds before he did, releasing a hot flood that filled Peter’s mouth, spreading warmth over his tongue and down his throat, making him battle not to choke as he swallowed pulse after pulse, then ripple after ripple.

His expression almost agonized, Mike pulled Peter’s head back, releasing his cock from Peter’s mouth, his breathing as choppy as the rise and fall of his chest. Peter was glad that Mike reached lower and clasped him to his thighs—he needed the support.

“You took that well,” came from above his head, the tone not as steady as Mike would probably have liked it to be. Peter sat back on his heels to see. “Took it as hard and strong as I could give it. Yeah, gave me a good ride.” Mike dropped his Stetson from his head to crown Peter’s with it, then bent to get his thumb to a dribble escaping Peter’s lips. He smeared it over them and a jerk of his head ordered Peter to lick them. He relished the dark gleam this brought to Mike’s eyes. Mike disengaged and Peter felt lost when he moved away. He heard water running at the sink and then Mike came back with two glasses, one empty.

He handed the full one over. “Spit it out,” he ordered. Too swollen and raw to make a quip, Peter took a gulp of what he discovered was warm salt water and gargled with it, spitting it out as ordered. Mike swung away again and soon returned with a cup of soda, which Peter gulped down, grateful and greedy for it.

“So, full Texan,” he mused, when he could speak.

Mike laughed. “Ya think so?  I’d say that’s about half. And now you took the edge off for me, I can get started.”

Before an amazed Peter could speak, Mike pulled him to his feet and up to lay a heated and thorough kiss on him, leaving him more dazed. He cupped him where he was full and erect, his grasp possessive and delivering just the right pinch of pain to Peter’s swollen dick. “Yeah, I know I’ve not taken the edge off for you. You got a ways to go yet. Come on.” He indicated their bedroom. “Let’s get you stripped down and see if we can’t work on improving that self-control of yours.”

Peter was glad that Mike helped him walk to the stairs, then ushered him up first and followed closely behind—his legs were both stiff and shaky at the same time, somehow, and he wasn’t sure he could have made it to the top otherwise. Nor was he sure what he’d gotten himself in to, but one thing he did know was that he wanted it, wanted it all—whatever it was. Whatever Mike had to give him…or, more accurately, make him take.

 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Peter woke suddenly, not knowing what had awakened him, but sure that it hadn’t been pebbles tossed at the window. The quality of the light showed it was later than the dawn patrol’s usual time, so unlikely anyone would just that minute have rattled the _wake-up-surf’s-up_ signal at his window.

His watch showed him there was still time to hit the waves, however. _Good._ He was glad he’d woken when he had. He tended to pass out into a quasi-coma after he and Mike really went at it. _After Mike goes to town on me. Goes Texan on me._

Trying to find the best descriptor it made him laugh, although he was careful not to shake the bed, just as he moved with quiet caution about the room. Not just because it paid to move slowly and carefully after vigorous sex, but also so not to wake Mike. It made Peter so happy that regular sex with him had cured Mike’s insomnia. Since they’d gotten together, Mike hadn’t taken one of the sleeping tablets he probably didn’t think anyone knew he had.

Peter’s skid, followed by his thump into the door frame and subsequent expletive had Mike twitching in the bed behind him. He bent to pick up the piece of paper, the cause of his slip, from the floor. “You were right about it being better to use the big pages for messages,” he murmured to Mike. He would have seen this one, then, and not been almost wiped out by the sheet of letter paper as a result.

 _I did knock but you didn’t hear,_ it said on one side in Davy’s handwriting. Yep, he’d either been whimpering in abject frustration, pushed to the limits of his endurance, or keening his extreme, perfectly-mixed-with-pain pleasure. Or fallen practically unconscious. And none of those tended to make hearing raps on the door easy. _PTO_ , Davy’d written at the foot of the page. Peter did, to read, _Where’s the first-aid stuff for ankles? Micky tripped over your lobster._

Okay. It was always good to start the day with a brain teaser. A puzzle. A couplet, really, despite the lack of rhyme—the metre could be said to be the same, if he read it eliding the syllables to make it so. It could be the beginning of a conversation poem, or cumulative tale, but it was more likely Davy was using a British term unknown to Peter as synecdoche for something. _Lobster_ —a type of case, presumably an instrument case? Because there were clamshell cases, the popular name for solander boxes—

“Oh! I was right the first time!” Peter prayed his exclamation hadn’t stirred Mike before the coffee was at least halfway brewed. But he felt pleased to be vindicated when he stopped to grab the second sheet, outside the door and read, _Where’s the first-aid stuff for stomachs? Micky ate your lobster._

Thinking it might be a quaternion, he went in search of the other two sections, wondering what the remaining duo of other body parts might be. _Must be_ _vers libre_ , he decided, reading it again as he made a thermos of tea from the hot water in the kettle. Or had the other two been writing lyrics? These read as far-out as anything by a San Francisco band. They could have come off the Mad Hatter’s new LP, for instance. Was this creativity a result of hanging out with the Warm Embrace? He could ask Mick and Davy down at the water—their missing surfboards told him where they were. He took up his own stuff and followed their footprints.

He was glad he wasn’t too sore to surf. He needed to focus on something outside himself and not the cold trickle of suspicion that there was more to Mike and Lorene that Mike wasn’t telling. Or the latest glowing red signal that Mike needed to be in charge of people. Or the threatening-to-blaze-to-a-conflagration of Mike’s protective instincts and his need to be the one providing for needs. _A need I can’t meet for him. So where does that leave me, leave him, leave us?_

He breathed deeply, fixing his mind on tangibles. They had to practice—while the sponsored beach games heralding the first two weeks of summer had long ended, FAB LA Radio’s July surfing challenge hadn’t. The finals were this weekend, and the Monkees had made it through. He, Micky and Davy had to be extra proficient to carry Mike. He saw Davy almost at once, sitting leaning back on his elbows at the shore break, letting the broken foam of the waves trickle over him, in a way that would be called in the soup, if he were surfing. Peter couldn’t see exactly which guy farther out he was holding an animated half-shouted and half-gesticulated conversation with.

If ever Peter called Davy to mind, it was at the water’s edge like that, only in swim shorts rather than a partly unzipped wetsuit, his chestnut hair tousled by the wind or exertion or the water, his sun-kissed face flushed, his full lips ruby-red, his round eyes extra bright with the sun, and the salt water making spikes of his eyelashes. Peter had tried to draw him like that, but it had come out as a series of circles, making him glad no one knew what he was attempting—to catch on paper Davy’s beauty and vibes.

“My lobster?” asked Peter in lieu of a greeting, joining him.

“Yeah. I knew it was yours, ’cause of you playing at the Renier. Oh, because it had the name of the hotel on the cool-bag thing. What, you think I could where it was from tell by the taste or the way it was presented?” Davy’s entire torso shook as he gave that shiny-eyed whole-body laugh that made people join in. He put out a hand to Peter’s face, easing a finger along a crease Peter could feel in his forehead.

“What, don’t tell me there was something wrong with it, and that was why you left it outside? Because Micky ate it!” he guffawed, hardly able to get out, “after he tripped over it.”

“I didn’t bring any food back,” Peter admitted. “I guess the Sycamore guys did and dropped it off for me.”

“Kind of ’em.” Davy stood and shouted his opinion of a paddle battle going on in the waves. It looked like Micky was one of those jostling to get into the curl first for right of way. He peered down at Peter and sank to a sit again. “So how come?”

Peter couldn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I left early. Sort of abruptly.”

Davy blew out a sigh. “How many guesses do I get, to what made you Peter out?”

“Hey, to peter out is already a verb, you know. And it’s not synonymous with freak out!”

“So you admit you did.” Davy’s face gleamed his satisfaction.

“I’m admitting nothing…ow!” His attempt at stalling met Davy’s forefinger prodding him. And then again.

“An’ each one gets harder,” Davy reminded him, poking him a third and fourth time. “An’ I can keep this up all day.”

“Okay!” Peter uncurled from his defensive fetal ball and sat up, palming sand from his wetsuit. “I saw Mike there with a woman and I—”

“Petered out.”

He had to laugh along with Davy. He couldn’t not.

“So you thought, what, that he fancied a change from bowling from the pavilion end? Wanted, in fact, to bowl a maiden over, we could say?”

“ _What?_ Is that from…boules?” Peter guessed.

“Cricket, you daft ha’p’orth. And so you imagined he was stepping out on you to do it. Like, behind your back?”

“Well…” Davy had hardly touched him, but Peter felt the full weight of Davy’s boxing skills—he had Peter on the ropes.

“Dear oh dear. And it was all a big fat nothing, right? Some lady promoter or booker he was talking to? Schmoozing?” Davy shaded his eyes to look out at the group pulling in to enter the curl.

“More or less, yes.”

Davy snorted. “Yeah an’ I don’t need to ask if he made it up to you after. And after that. And for most of the night.” He shot to his feet, dragging Peter with him, and pointed. Micky was trying to carve, but his turn on the wave face was too sharp and, caught inside, he tried to bail.

“Cutback!” shouted Davy and Peter together as if Micky could hear them. They waited to see Micky had slipped into clear water before they sank down again, Davy kneeling and Peter cross-legged, both lying back in the trickles and eddies.

“So yeah, your lobster’s history, but we left you the oysters.”

Peter doubted Davy had had an attack of guilt at having made free with Peter’s earnings. “Oh, let me guess. Because of, you know what they say about oysters? And with it being just you and Mick…” He wiped the water Davy scooped at him from his face and splashed Davy back. “But did you leave us anything for breakfast?”

“Smoked salmon and loads of salad, all in the fridge. Where I’ve already bagsied the banana parfait.”

“ _Buh-nar-nar._ ” Peter liked the sound of the word, in Davy’s accent. He missed listening to Davy, not having been talking to him as much recently. Missed sharing a room with him, their late-night rap sessions, really.

Davy narrowed his eyes. “’S’everything okay? Not the how’s your father. I can see _that’s_ fine. The rest.”

“Yeah. I guess,” Peter found himself replying, when he’d decoded the euphemism.

“Wait. He’s not really—”

“No.” Peter’s emphatic denial cut that off. “Of course not. It’s nothing. Just—”

“ _Dudes._ ” Fervent dawn patroller Hank dropped to his knees next to them. Peter automatically held his thermos out for Hank to pour himself a cup of herbal tea, hoping he liked ginger, Peter’s choice that morning. He’d needed the extra energy.

“Solid. Noseriding?” Hank pointed a forefinger at Peter and Davy then a thumb at a small gaggle out beyond the breakers, waiting for him. He was generous about passing on his wave reading and board work skills, something Peter appreciated. Hank stopped and gestured with the plastic cap. “Whoa. Isn’t that your pad?”

Hank’s unusually long sentence for him had Peter’s attention on that, and it took Davy’s, “ _Bloody hell_ ,” to make him turn and see the sky lighting up above their place. He put that together with the _whoo-eee_ sneeze noise of a second earlier and came up with _rocket_ _flare_. “Yeah. Guess we’re needed,” he replied.

“Mike wants us?” Davy gave the piercing cab-calling whistle he’d learned in London and perfected in New York, then waved madly at Micky and pointed back at the house. “You know, in the future, it’s got to be easier to get in touch with people even when they’re outside, or on the move or whatever,” he mused. “I can’t wait.”

Whatever, this system worked—Micky sped over and they rushed back, to where Mike stood in the kitchen, half-dressed, guzzling coffee and water and scarfing down slivers of smoked salmon on a cracker.

“We got a call,” he said, when he’d swallowed enough of his mouthful to speak.

“Monumental?” Micky slapped a hand over his heart and fanned himself with the other.

Mike nodded, washing down the rest of his mouthful with coffee. “And it’s all okay—going ahead! I guess Grace agreed.”

 _What?_ It struck a discordant note with Peter. _Why, if—_

“Davy, we did it!” Micky grabbed him for a hug, against which Davy squirmed.

“Deandra and her prayer group did it, you mean,” came his correction, the sneaky edge to his tone announcing a zinger was coming. “Now _you_ have to keep to whatever _you_ promised to do in return.”

“Oh, I…” Micky looked a little pale. “No, I guess that ol’ southern charm won the day for us again, huh, Mikey? The Texas Tornado struck again?”

 “Well, whatever did it, they want us in today to sign our contracts and give us the schedules. And they want to do some test recording today, even,” Mike informed them.

“Oh, I’d better…” Davy jerked his thumb at the bathroom, his comb appearing in his hand as if by magic.

“I’m starting the clock on you, l’il biscuit—we gotta hustle. We need to go collect Grace in Venice first!” Mike called after him. “Seems her car still won’t start so she asked them to ask us if we’d give her a ride in.”

“ _Still?_ ” Peter questioned, focusing on the surface Grace-related question and not the more existential one burrowing its way into him.

“What?”

“ _Still_ won’t start?”

“Oh, yeah.” Mike rinsed his cup and plate. “It’s why she hitched in, yesterday. I thought Micky and I could take a look at it for her?”

“Sure. Neat.” Micky nodded, unzipping his wetsuit. “I like getting out to Venice Beach.”

“Well, I want to stay on _this_ beach a little longer. I need pointers on noseriding, and the water’s corduroy enough for good snaps today.” Peter spoke over any Mike interruption. “I’ll take your bike in and be there when you get there. And that way there’s enough room for Grace in the car. Take my bass with you? Is she bringing her harp?”

“I…guess not. But, Pete—”

“I need to practice some moves. We need all the points we can get to win.” He felt mean when the flush Mike fought told Peter his barb had registered. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Well, I guess we’re not joined at the hip…” Mike’s reply came slowly as he searched Peter’s eyes. He raised an immediate warning finger at Micky, whose open mouth was no doubt bursting with a, _no, not at the_ hip _, exactly, but pretty near_ riff on Mike’s words. “Mick, turn around and stay that way.”

Confused and protesting, Micky nevertheless obeyed Mike’s order, giving Mike privacy to reach out and pull Peter to him. “Good morning,” he murmured against Peter’s lips, lips Peter opened under Mike’s to receive the kiss that Mike bestowed along with his words, one Peter took and took over. This? This was himandMike. Like last night. These needs Peter could kindle and stoke.

“You didn’t wake me,” Mike muttered.

“For surfing?” Peter tried for wide-eyed innocence, but guessed from the answering heat in Mike’s eyes that the gleam in his fell more on the _wicked_ side of the scale.

“Riding…not necessarily the waves,” Mike whispered in his ear, making him shiver—against Mike. Mike flickered his gaze downward, then back up, his fingers toying with Peter’s zipper. “Here. I know you always need help with this where it sticks.”

Peter…still couldn’t quite believe Mike had fallen for that old “stuck-zipper” ploy so long ago and _still_ continued to believe it. He merely nodded.

“How long d’you think Davy’ll take gettin’ ready?” Mike breathed.

“Well, I don’t know about Davy, but _I’m_ ready now,” Peter murmured, peeping up through his lashes, and he took the groan his reply wrung from Mike as being more from a place of physical pain than a pained response to Peter’s cheesy line.

Mike jumped suddenly. “Micky, I said to stay turned around!”

“No, it’s fine.” Peter disengaged, rubbing his nose against the tip of Mike’s as he did so. _Leave him wanting more._ “I’m out of here. I’m hitting the waves, like I said. Go. Go do Grace a favor. No pun intended.”

Then what he’d done caught up with him. He’d given Mike space to hang out with a chick, Grace, just as he gave him space to flirt with women, such as Jo-Ann or Amanda. But, unlike them, Grace was an unknown quantity—Peter couldn’t believe that in the heat of last night, he’d forgotten that story she’d told Mike. True or not, crazy or not, it didn’t matter. What mattered was it was exacerbating all those tendencies and needs of Mike’s that Peter had been working so hard to deal with…and failing miserably.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

He felt Mike staring after him as he jumped down the sundeck stairs to get back onto the beach, and tried to project a calm, reassuring aura despite the jealousy and insecurity that scratched themselves into his consciousness like a mantra. The warmth between his shoulder heated to a burn, making him slow his pace but not stop. He wouldn’t. “It’s _fine_ , Michael,” he called, half over his shoulder.

And it _was_ fine, really. He wasn’t mad at Mike. He really _did_ want more wave time, needed to feel the beat of the water under him and the cool of its salt spray over him. To let the wind rush all around him and see the shades of blue and green beneath him and blue and white above him. Being out on the water, taking in lungfuls of the ozone, cleared Peter’s head, as it usually did. He wasn’t as at one with the water as usual, in trying to master a new trick, but that did give him a different kind of focus.

Hanging five or, wow, ten—if he ever could—would get enough points to make up for Mike’s more than probable lack of them. Cheater fives, stretching out a leg while keeping well back from the nose, were one thing, but actually maneuvering from the front took a whole different balance. “Knees, waist, hips,” he repeated to himself, to make sure he didn’t adjust his center of gravity or position on the board by waving his arms like a broker on the stock exchange floor.

“Wide nose?”

Peter risked shifting to glance across at Hank after that yelled comment, to help him decipher it.

“Eddie’s?” Hank added.

“Oh, right. He said I could borrow his wide-nosed board.” He spoke more to himself, annoyed he hadn’t been keeping up so much with the surf crew. Being with Mike was…intense, was the best he could come up with, and Peter had been cutting his surfing short and rushing back from the water early to be with him.

Oh, not just since they’d gotten together, to spend time with each other before the others got up. No, for a good few months now. His early morning surfing had been part of Peter’s arsenal in his seduce-Michael campaign. From making noise when he went out to wake Mike, so that Mike could watch him secretly— _well_ —through the deck telescope or binoculars, to posing on the sundeck as part of his post-surf stretching and latterly yoga. He’d— _No._   _Think water. Think surf._ Especially this morning, with the wind pushing the ocean to be choppy.

Only he wasn’t in the moment enough, and minutes later rode a cruncher, not realizing until he’d started it was hard-breaking and folding over. It closed out, breaking along its whole length at once. Even Hank would’ve wiped out on that, Peter reasoned, and he certainly did. It wasn’t that big, so just rag-dolled him a little, and he was near enough to shore that it wasn’t deep. He wondered if he could really smell the earth, on the bottom of the ocean. He always thought he could, categorizing it as smelling of oil, almost.

“Axed.” Hank glided in and pulled him up.

“And ate it,” Peter agreed, pinching his nose and blowing, to pop his ears.

“Topanga?”

It took Peter a second to interpret, that as the finals were being held at a beach with point break waves, which Peter wasn’t _that_ used to, a session at Topanga Beach, which had shore break waves _and_ took in waves from the west would be useful practice. Hank circumvented speech entirely for his next topic and just pointed at Eddie, waiting out with the line of surfers for the next good curl. Yeah, a wide-nosed stick would be a lot more stable for the amount of white water found there—not that Peter was skilled enough to move around the imploding wave and still stay on the board’s nose. Would there be time to go out there and train before the weekend?

He hoped so—if lack of opportunity to practice meant the three of them couldn’t rely on Davy’s athleticism, Mick’s acrobatics and Peter’s technical skills to get ahead, Davy, finding out that Miss Malibu Beach and the radio station’s most popular girl singer were on the jury panel, had come up with a Plan B: that they should wear their shortest, tightest shorts, or even buy some smaller, snugger ones for the occasion. Oh, and that Micky should stuff his.

Peter could have told him there was no need for that last. Cold water made everyone shrink, some more than others, but Micky had no need to feel inadequate—he was a grower, rather than a shower, as Peter could testify. He wondered if, now those two were sharing a room…Davy could too. He snorted, hoping the other dudes gravitating toward Hank would think he was clearing his throat.

“Staying?” Hank asked.

Dani shook his head on Peter’s behalf before he could. Yeah, he hadn’t hung out with them, stayed for proper sit-down, post-session analysis breakfast, whether in a beach café or from a beach bunny picnic, in a while. He took a drink from his thermos, passing it along after, as he considered. He’d been missing stuff, and now the Monkees were taking on work which would mean early starts—too early to hit the beach beforehand. He…didn’t want things to be all about work. He liked the Monkees’ pace, that their gainful employment was sporadic and mostly evenings. Peter didn’t want to miss the mornings. _The days. The summer._ He shouldn’t compromise that, let it be chipped away.

It hit him that along with his surf brothers, he’d been neglecting the skills workshop too. Like his relationships with their immediate Beechwood neighbors, both places and groups were the spaces and circles he’d created that were separate from the life of the pad. Being the eldest child in a family with younger brothers had meant having to carve out his own spaces, somewhere he could get involved in his own things. Make his own small families, really. Again, not something he should abdicate, even in the initial white-heat of a relationship.

Thinking of their relationship led him to thoughts of Mike. Was Mike, an only child, accustomed to making a space for himself outside that of the family and home, where he could submerge himself in his own world? If so, what? Making the rounds of clubs and bars and events they could play at, hanging out with owners, managers and bookers? No, working for the Central Intelligence Services! The scene unrolled before Peter like one of Micky’s wild scenarios. Mike taking notes in spy classes. Trying on disguises. Being taken out for practical tests. Peter’s snort was loud, ripening into a guffaw.

“Wow. Must be stronger than it looks.” Dani examined the joint that had made its way to him.

“Righteous.” Hank nodded.

It was good bud, and left Peter mellow, a state that probably helped in riding Mike’s beloved cycle along Crenshaw to central LA and along Vine to Santa Monica Boulevard, dodging traffic and pedestrians most of the way. He and his red band shirt were still a little ocean-damp when he arrived at the Monumental lot and the offices at the back that the Clairlight people appeared to use.

But it didn’t seem he was that late—the others looked to be just grabbing water and coffees and settling into chairs. He relished the way Mike’s eyes lit up when he saw him and, judging by Micky and Davy’s eye roll and head shake, Peter’s face bore the same softened look.

“Shotgun?” Mike tilted his head to the chair he’d saved at his side for Peter to join him.

“ _Shotgun?_ ” queried Grace, grinning. “I like that. I might start saying it.”

“Don’t. Be careful.” Micky winced from the other side of her. “It’s a creeping southern thang. Once you start with that, it’s a short step to _y’all_ and _cattywampus_ and then it’s _piddle’o_ and you’re drinking sweet tea with _everything_ and— _Ow._ ” He rubbed the back of his head where Mike had slapped him. “And slappin’ decent folks upside the head with your long Texan arms.”

“Grabbed you this.” Mike ignored Micky and handed Peter a plate with a flaky pastry.

“Dude! _Hollow!_ ” Peter rubbed his stomach and giggled at channeling Hank. Finding he needed to eat, he broke the pastry in two and stuffing half into his mouth.

“Maybe we get breakfast like this every day here,” came from around the cupcake Micky was munching.

“Hope not—I won’t fit into my shorts.” Peter giggled again. “And there is no Plan C.”

“Did you, erm, cop some good water?” Grace asked.

“Grace wants to learn to surf,” Mike threw in.

“Um, you said. Yeah, it was chill till I spilled. As always.”

“And well done on placing in the finals.”

Peter leaned around Mike to glance at her. Now he knew she was young, he could see it. She’d dressed a little formally, blazer-and pants-style, as she had the other day, and his first impression held true—there seemed no guile to her. “Thanks. Hey, come watch us, on Saturday?” A beach bunny of their own! He laughed, making Mike frown.

“Here. Drink this.” Mike passed his cup of black coffee over.

“I’m not…” Shrugging, Peter sipped the drink. “And she’s fine. Your bike.”

“I wasn’t—”

Mike broke off as Al, the production assistant or whatever it was he was came in, Leslie, the assistant’s assistant, or whatever she was, at his heels, both fizzing with excitement. He clapped his hands together.

“So, as I guess you all know by now, Grace will be taking part in the _TripleH_ _Summer Special_ , meaning we’re all going ahead!” Al announced without further ado.

“I’m so glad we persuaded you.” Micky slung an arm around her shoulders, Peter noted, as did Mike, who raised an eyebrow, making Micky drop it again.

“How could I resist…that salary?” Grace zinged back. “And the rumors of an advance…?” She looked at Al, who shot behind his desk and shuffled some papers.

“And you’re okay with it?” Peter asked Mike, to make sure.

“Even if we become known as Melodie Mignon and the Monkees?”

Peter winced at Mick’s quip. _Too near the knuckle._ “I’m sure Michael’s zen about it.” He brushed the back of his hand along the back of Mike’s, the brief contact all they could manage in public, but being coded, it encompassed a lot more.

“Huh?” Al, who’d been directing the flunky from the other day where to place a large easel, turned to them. “Didn’t Grace explain?”

“I didn’t say anything about it because I thought you ought to be the one to. To do it properly,” Grace muttered to Al, but looking at them all out of the corners of her eyes.

“Oh!” He looked as though his birthday and Christmas had come together as he clapped his hands again. Micky jumped at the noise and dropped his second cupcake. Mike passed Peter’s empty plate to Grace for Micky, indicating he should scoop up the hunks of cake and deposit them there, rather than leave them. With a little nudging, Micky caught on.

“Sorry,” Mike said to Grace.

“Oh, it’s not his fault. I bet you grew up with a dog, right?” she asked Micky. “So you’re not used to having to pick spilled food up?”

“ _Exactly!_ And that’s why I’m always saying we should get one for the pad.” Micky beamed.

“But we’ve already got a werewolf,” Peter pointed out. He wanted to test his theory, that anytime the word _wolf_ was mentioned, Micky had to howl. Now was as good a time as any and—

“ _Yaarooo!_ ” Micky’s agonized and reluctant-sounding yowl rang through the room.

“Success! I suspect hypnosis. Oh, nothing.” Peter waved a hand.

“Do what? Never mind.” Davy shook his head. “And, Mick, if we did have one, you’d still be fighting it for the scraps. And haven’t you heard the phrase, why keep a dog when you’re barking mad yourself?”

“Guys, _please_!” Mike yelped.

“Could we all look at this?” Al tapped the papers on the board and when he whipped off the cover sheet, Peter was reminded of the cartoons he and his brother used to make, Peter contributing crazy dialogue to go with the zany situations and caricatures his brother drew. He giggled again, shushing himself when Mike eyeballed him. “There’s a _Hollywood Hills High_ comic?” he asked.

“Oh, _Peter_! Well, yeah, there is, but this is a shooting board!” Micky muttered between clenched teeth.

How long before Micky’s showing off his expert knowledge pissed Mike off? A day, Peter would bet. “A storyboard?” He’d come across them at college. Drawings of the sequences of events in a film, like frames, used in movies—which _TripleH_ wasn’t—and… “TV commercials?”

“That’s my background, yeah.” Al looked at the floor.

“Micky’s too!” Davy guffawed. “I’ll tell you later, Grace. Don’t worry; the story’s clean. As clean as bath time, you could say.” He shot her a wink.

She was on her feet, examining the large pages. “They’re really good drawings. I didn’t know there was such a thing. It’s very interesting.”

The munchies striking in full force, Peter went to root around the remains of the snack table at the far wall, re-joining the others crowding around the board halfway through Al drooling over a long extended take he wanted to use to film the very first shot of them. “Like Kubrik did in _Paths of Glory_ ,” he sighed. “Really support the storytelling, dig?”

“Wasn’t that a war film?” Peter asked.

“Well, so was _Gone with the Wind_ , right?” Davy ran a finger along the frames which showed a dark-haired woman sashaying down the Hot Spot, whose clientele rose from each table she passed and followed her to the front, near the stage. “And the way this looks, the camera following her through the lines, is just like the dance scene in that.”

“It was kind of an influence,” Al muttered, kicking the floor with his toe.

Peter examined the café customers’ almost frenzied expressions as they joined in whatever frantic activity was depicted. “It’s also like the fight scene in _The Quiet Man,_ talking of long scenes.”

“As was that,” came in an almost inaudible mumble.

“I know it’s art, like choreography or cinematography or some such,” began Mike, in the tone that was the aural equivalent of him taking off his hat and twisting it around in his hands. “But I don’t get it? Grace is sitting in the café, _then_ comes on stage?”

“Exactly. She’s hooting and hollering in the audience and leaps on stage and sings along with you, like at the audition.”

“Huh? Why would she?”

“Because she’s the new girl and that’s her —and your—entrance and introduction to viewers?” Leslie tried to explain, looking from one confused face to another.

“Wut?” Mike demanded of Al…and Grace.

“We didn’t engage Grace as a singer—we’re signing her as an actress!”

“Wait, was that an option?” Micky grabbed Al. “Because I can easily get my portfolio or, wait, even better, re-enact—”

 ‘“Melodie’ is an exchange student, who’s had to be enrolled in the summer school make-up classes.” Al flipped through a couple of pages of his drawings and tapped a frame.

“I thought there already was a new girl?” Peter commented. He recalled the red-lipped platinum blonde who’d glared at them across the lunch table yesterday. _Huh. Just like high school, then._

Al nodded, increasing Peter’s confusion. “Yes, the part’s already written, for a new actress to spark up the cast a little, and the idea was that she’d sing with the band who would be cast. So we re-concepted it a notch, in re-casting it for Grace.” He pulled her up into a hug, Grace stiff and resistant, and continued, “Welcome to _Hollywood Hills High_ , Melodie Mignon! Oh, and you Monkees too!”

And as Mike looped an arm around Grace, knuckling into her head like he would Micky, making her laugh and poke him in the ribs, that discordant note Peter had caught before rang out once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would appreciate any feedback, especially as to if this feels it's dragging and/or repetitive. Thanks!


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Peter lost sound of the jangle in the resulting flurry. He’d always thought being shown any kind of contract galzanized Mike, and now Mike leaping forward to Al’s desk when the sheaves of paper were produced was like a demonstration of early experiments into conducting electricity.

 _No._ Peter shook his head. His analogy didn’t work. If the contract was, say, the zinc electrode applied to one end of Mike, what was the copper equivalent on the other? Peter made a grab for Mike to complete his parallel, but was too late. And anyway, wouldn’t that make Mike the glass filled with brine that had conducted the current?

“What?”

It took Micky nudging him to make him realize he was sniggering, thinking of the glass of salt water Mike had brought him last night to gargle with. Things…really were all connected. But before that, brine-soaked paper had been used as the conductor, and before that— “A frog’s leg!” he spluttered out.

“Oi.” Davy knocked his shoulder into him. “Get it together. Now.” His face showed it wasn’t a suggestion or even advice.

Peter nodded and finished the now-cold coffee. Both Davy and Micky needed this gig, for similar and differing reasons, and although Peter wasn’t totally thrilled at the extra hours of work they’d be doing on top of their current regular gigs, he wouldn’t screw this up for the percussionists. Hearing Mike mention the union made him say, “Grace will need to join a different one, won’t she? Like Mick, because he does acting work?”

“Right.” Mike beamed at him, making Peter smile back. “We’ll need to use your phone, Al. Grace, if you don’t have an agent, you should get the union’s lawyer to go through the clauses—Micky, you’ll help her, right? Get onto your contact there to rush Grace’s membership and benefits through?”

“And we could send these pages by facsimile to ours to get them to check,” Peter suggested, wriggling his shoulders against the _pupil is becoming the master_ feel.

“Yeah, that’d be quicker than taking them to Vine and Waring. You got an LDX here? In the main office?” Mike demanded of Al and Leslie.

Peter betted Mike knew the facsimile number of the local branch of the Musicians’ Union by heart, just as he had the phone number memorized. He was in there often enough, not just paying their dues, but keeping the group known. Peter liked the clubhouse-type place too, where he was usually more interested in seeing who was in the practice rooms than in raising the Monkees’ profile.

That latter thought rang like a windchime in his head, sharpening to the resonance of a celesta when they assured all concerned that yes, they were happy to do a test recording. So, they’d be heard and seen throughout the sound stage today…and beyond. They’d already been interviewed for a teen magazine— _TripleH_ was popular. Visible…

“Mike,” Peter started to say when Mike finished taking care of business and rushed to join them once more, now in the reclining chairs before the big mirrors, to have makeup applied. “If Grace is keeping a low profile—”

He broke off when a different technician came to explain the purpose of the recording, not just to capture their performance but to see how strong their music sounded when captured live on normal studio equipment, or if they needed to record it separately in a studio and sync the sound. Before Peter could resume, they were being walked inside the set and greeted by the director, assistant director and the director of photography.

“Ah, the director trifecta,” Micky said. “Trifecta meaning—”

“Yep, we got it, Mick.”

 _Oh._ Peter’d thought Mike would be the first to get to that level of gritted-teethness, not Davy. “Isn’t the set in use?” Peter looked around. “I though time was money in film.”

“Let me check the call sheet…” Micky looked around. “Oh, a call—”

“ _Micky._ ” Davy blew out a sigh. “Just because you were, what was it, Lizard Boy, like, a million years ago—”

“ _It wasn’t called that!_ ”

Despite knowing Micky’s one and only lead-role TV series was the one subject that was sacred, never to be mocked or slighted, the volume and force of Micky’s rejoinder took Peter aback. “Chill,” he said, standing between them and breathing deeply, hoping they’d copy him. “Is this sheet a daily log?”

“It’s much more.” Micky snatched up a discarded one. “And— _Huh?_ We’re on it?” He showed them where their piece of filming was typed into the schedule. “These are made the day before, meaning the AD—that means assistant director, guys; who draws them up—is good!”

Peter pushed this aside to return to his question, now rattling in him like a vibraslap. He pulled Mike aside. “Grace is keeping a low profile, right? So why agree to do this? She’s not nervous about that guy seeing her and knowing where she is?”

“Huh? Oh, _what_? As if some thug nightclub owner’s gonna watch this teen program,” Mike scorned.

 _But it’s not just the broadcast,_ thought Peter, moving for a sound engineer to bustle past him to the stage. News of the show was in magazines, for instance. And it was popular, the Hot Spot ‘café’ as full as it had been before. He’d assumed the crowd there that day had been to audition or asked to provide feedback, but had learned otherwise. The was usually an audience—media people and people who wanted to be in the media, for instance, hung out at the _TripleH_ set, watching the filming. The atmosphere buzzed.

“So, _Let’s Dance On_?” The AD ushered them onto the stage, nodding at the technicians working there and ones wearing headphones near the bank of cameras and mics.

“No, man.” Mike plugged in his guitar. “That’s too obvious. We’re gonna do one of our own songs.”

 _We are?_ Well, they’d get more money performing their own compositions, Peter supposed, setting up. He scanned the set for Davy and signalled him where he stood chatting to a chick.

“… _Last_ _Train to Clarksville_ ,” Mike was saying.

“Stop right there!” cried an officious male voice from the back, a little out of breath.

“Oh no.” Micky, drumsticks in hand, pointed at the interruption. “A b with b heading this way.”

“Balding with briefcase?” Peter peered. The guy was too. Mike was allergic to them.

“Essenpee.” The panting man held up a card, his balding dome shining under the lights and his suit rustling in his haste.

“Unusual name.” Micky reached for the guy’s card before Mike could react. “Would that be pea as in vegetable or pee as in—”

“I’m getting damn sick of being given business cards!” Mike exploded.

“S and P.” The guy had enough breath to speak clearly now. “Standards and Practices.”

“From the network? TVS-TV?” Micky read the card. “What’s dubious about our legal, moral, or ethical standards, huh? Well, okay…” He nodded as Davy leapt on stage with them. “Ya got me there.”

Micky wasn’t the only one wondering—questions flew at the guy from several people.

“There’s been a complaint.”

“Already?” Micky replied to the suit and shrugged at the crew. “We haven’t even got anything in the can yet, let alone broadcast it!”

“The department was informed that you sing protest songs,” the man answered.

“Well, we’re no Honey and the Bear…” Micky demurred.

“Mick, cool it,” Peter whispered, tilting his head to make Micky look at Mike…and his hands, that were already curling into fists.

“ _Last Train to Clarksville_ is a blatant anti-establishment, anti-war song.” The man looked from one to another, then turned to the gathering cast and crew.

“Fine.” Peter stepped in before Mike could do more than shout that this was unbelievable. “We’ll do _Sweet Young Thing_. That’s got a great opening riff, too. Great intro to us and Grace.” He took a copy from Mike’s case and handed it over, smiling at Mike. It was a good song.

The chorus of tongue clicks and choreography of head shakes that came within seconds didn’t seem to agree. ‘“I know that something very strange is happ’nin’ to my brain. I’m either feeling very good or else I am insane’? ‘Seeds’? ‘Turned on’? ‘I can learn to fly?’ Why, this is chockfull of drug references!”

Gasps and protests came from those gathered on the set—and a sly cackle of laughter.

“Here.” Davy thrust a copy of _She Hangs Out_ into the guy’s hand and his grin at Micky told Peter that Davy and Micky had been fighting, probably for the entire drive in, over who got to sing on their TV debut. Had Mike been making a case for himself, too? Well, whatever. “Shouldn’t be a problem with _that_ ,” he declared.

“On the contrary, singing about lewd sexual behavior with a female who is below the age of consent, amoral behaviour that you acknowledge could result in an out of wedlock pregnancy, is a _big_ problem!” The man, lips now pursed, finished his perusal of the sheet music and slapped it against Davy’s chest, forcing him to take it back.

“ _What?_ It’s not about that. Is it?” Davy swallowed. “Well, take this one instead. It’s totally sweet. It’s called _Cuddly Toy_.” But he didn’t get the chance to hand these lyrics over, stumbling where Mike shoved past him.

“ _What. The._ _Hell_?” Mike jumped from the stage and approached the guy.

“You can’t say that on TV!” the man squealed, backing away into the crowd.

Peter hopped down, hoping to calm Mike and amazed how quickly things seemed to be escalating into a melee, with the _TripleH_ cast and those gathered on set arguing in the Monkees’ favor, and the Monumental crew and executives demanding details about the complaint to the network, because they never had problems with any other music programs, from their weekly _Hip Action_ pop roundup to Gino Martelli’s annual _Toast of the Town_ variety show—which they were lucky to get, by the way.

“And we’ve never had any trouble with this show!” exclaimed the Clairlight top brass from the other day, dividing their glares between the group and the hapless Al.

“That’ll be me.” Grace raised a shaky hand. “I think I’m a bad luck charm.”

“Hey, there.” Her pale face and the way she pressed her lips together drained Mike’s anger, caring pouring in instead. He slung an arm around her shoulders. “Why would you say that, kiddo?”

“Because stuff like this has been happening around me lately.” Grace attempted a smile of thanks when Peter passed her a tissue.

Mike stilled, his eyes narrowing. “Bad luck…or someone out to get you?”

“ _What?_ ” Peter shook off whatever that meant. “Look, this stoppage is wasting time which means it’s costing money. So let’s find a solution, a song we can do. Yes?” When Mike didn’t gainsay him, he went to speak to the Standards guy, prepared to recite their entire works to him, if that was what it took. It didn’t take long before he was back with the group, smiling.

“It’s true what they say, well, say in _Dream Beat_ —a hippie isn’t a hippie unless he’s happy.” Micky traced a finger above Peter’s beam.

“Yes. We’re on. _I’m a Believer_ ,” Peter informed the rest, director and crew included, who wanted to test-film as well as test-record. “Mike?”

Mike snapped to. “Lead vocals are by the drummer, so focus on him, and close in tight on Peter on bass and Davy on tambourine for the harmonies. Shots of Grace for the chorus starting with _Then I saw her face…_ Okay?”

“You in their Union too?” Davy muttered, getting a grin and a backslap from Mike.

It went over as well as when they’d auditioned there, the audience into it, dancing and singing along, and Grace getting on stage for the final chorus, harmonizing the _yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah_ with Davy. The group ran through it again, and the crowd whistled for more.  

“ _The Girl I Knew Somewhere_?” Mike asked

Peter nodded – the Standards guy had cleared it.

 “Good. Same configuration for the cameras, and Davy, take bass when Pete switches to keyboards for the choruses? Should be harpsichord, I know, but…” Mike shrugged at the electric organ.

“It’ll be fine,” Peter assured him. _I had to say it. I jinxed it,_ he thought a minute later, finding the keyboard of the plugged in and switched on organ hot to the touch.

“ _Peter?_ ” mouthed Mike, at the fuzzy sound, a change in its tone that should have warned Peter, but perhaps he wasn’t as sharp as he should have been, or quick enough, when, seconds later, the instrument shorted out and belted him an electric shock.

“ _Peter!_ ” Mike cried, when Peter was shot backward to land on his ass. Mike shoved him farther away from the keyboard. “You _okay_?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Disconnect that. Careful!” His head buzzed as Mike stomped around, demanding to know who’d checked the equipment, who was responsible— “I’m fine,” he insisted. He stuck out a foot. “Rubber-soled. And you laugh at my desert boots.”

“Imagine if you’d been barefoot…” Mike looked at Grace, and, trailing his gaze down, Peter realized she was. He tried to determine if the electricity would have conducted beyond the circuit that his body touching the keyboard had made, but couldn’t think with all the voices and hustle around him.

“What happened?” Davy asked, helping him from the platform to sit on the floor.

“These organs tend to go their own way.” Peter recalled the Judge fixing the bass pedals of his Hammond. “The Embrace’s Vox overheated too, remember?”

“Oh, that’ll happen.” A burly technical operator came up, holding the back board of the Le Mans. “Especially if your pour soda down it.” He showed them the fried wires. “There’s still traces of sugary liquid in there.”

“That…that was deliberate? To get you?”

“Mike?” Peter reached for him, but Mike’s attention wasn’t on him.

“Because it could have killed you, Grace!” Mike hissed.

“Michael. Listen to yourself!” Peter stood.

“Someone did that.” Mike pointed to the stage.

“Maybe by accident, and any one of a hundred people,” Peter agreed. “Including outside people, on a studio tour. Remember those old coots? If they were taken around here, they could have spilled a drink, or even thought it hilarious to pour out a drink on this set, the stage especially.”

“You don’t understand.” Mike fixed dark eyes on him. “Grace’s car was got at too. The coil wire was disconnected from the battery!”

“Michael.” Peter exhaled. He pulled Mike to the edge of the set. “I bet it’s an old car, not brand-new? So, stuff goes wrong, maintenance is needed. It doesn’t mean someone’s out to get Grace and it doesn’t mean you have to set yourself up as her protector!”

Mike’s tightened lips told Peter his opinion of that. “But what she told us—”

Peter took in a breath and held in for a few beats before releasing it. This was not the time or the place to get into this. “This…is a pretext, Michael.”

“Just what’re you saying there, shotgun?” It wasn’t a real question, a request for information or clarification. The counterpoint of _watch_ what you’re saying rang through.

“I saw how affected you were by her story. I was too—it’s a bum trip that a young woman would fall victim to a predatory guy, would be abused. But this…” He waved a hand around the sound stage, trying and failing to put his still-forming feelings into words. “You’re not entertaining straightforward evidence in front of you,” was the best he could manage, on the spot.

“You, always so goddamn Hosanna about everything and everyone—I can’t believe you’d accuse her of _lying_ , Peter!” Mike shouted.

“I never said that!” Peter yelled back. He realized they’d stepped into each other’s space and were toe-to-toe. He got a hand to Mike’s chest, but Mike wouldn’t budge. “Fine. I will. In fact, I have to.” He took a step away, then another. “Because I need to cool down.” _Before I say things you’re not ready to hear, much less deal with. Things that will hurt you._

“That’s the second time today you’re turning your back on me and walking away.”

There was more. Peter could feel it. And when it came, hard-edged, bitter, it hurt.

“Maybe I’m not the only one on my third strike, Peter.”


	18. Chapter Eighteen

“Um, guys? Aren’t you…one man short?”

“Naughty, naughty!” Micky bounced over to where Jo-Ann, her tongue poked in her cheek, stood before the stage. “I see what you did there, lady. Less of that, if you please—one of us resembles that remark.”

“He’ll be here.” Either Mike’s tone or his glare had Jo-Ann flipping her tray to under one arm so she could raise her hands, palms out, before slinking away. Mike finishing tuning Peter’s bass and casting an eye around the Duke Box stage. “He’ll be here,” he repeated, almost in a mutter. “But if he isn’t, Davy, what songs are you confident with on bass?” This was why he should have insisted that Davy take his instrument lessons seriously, have them regularly, practice properly. Occasions like these—

“What? _Mike!_ He’ll _be_ here,” Davy said.

“He _is_ here,” Micky added.

Mike looked up, ready to chew Micky out, and met Peter’s gaze. He tried to read it.

“Hey.” Peter tipped his head back at them. “Sorry, fellas. I lost track of time.”

“That’ll happen,” Mike agreed. “If you’re not wearing a watch.” His pointed to the bare space on Peter’s wrist. “What’d’ya do with this one? Lose it?” _Swop it for some magic beans?_

“I wouldn’t be so cavalier with a present you gave me.” Peter, seemingly adept at mindreading sarcasm, held Mike’s stare as he joined them on stage. “I take good care of it, like I do everything you give me. Although, no, I don’t sing it a Hosanna every day.”

Mike didn’t like this, but he wouldn’t lose the staredown, either.

“You weren’t really expecting I’d shine on you?”

Had he? Really thought Pete would miss their gig, flake on their commitment? In lieu of time to ponder that through, Mike changed tack. “Pete, look. I’m sorry about how we left things. What I said. It was…” He shrugged. “Are you okay?”

“To play?” In reply to his own question, Peter took up his instrument and played an effortless bass line, a pop song Mike knew well, but making it sound like jazz with the different passing tones he added to walk from one chord to the next. It was steady and repetitive enough to lay down the harmonic base and keep time, but it filled the spaces with energy and groove.

“Nice!” Micky took up the beat in approval, his diddle stroke quickly changing to a drag, and the Duke Box audience started to pay attention.

“Umm. Interesting, really, the base guitar.” Peter played a major pentatonic bass run.

“Oh yeah. We’re the beating pulse, right?” Micky increased to a double-stroke roll.

“And I bridge the gap between the drums and the rhythm guitar.”

“And what am I, chopped liver?”

Peter flashed the disgruntled Davy a peace sign. “Just, the bass guitar is the foundation in that it supports the song, and the walls, because it contains the song. It enhances it all. It’s why you notice the bass when it’s not there.”

That was enough for Mike. “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Means it’s time to play.” Peter plugged in and tested his sound, his expression set at neutral.

* * * *

It…wasn’t their worst set ever. Their early days’ sessions had been plain _lousy_. But apart from that…

Leaving the stage and trudging toward the dressing room, Davy looked from Mike to Peter. “So, which one of you’s gonna massage my shoulders for me?”

“ _Huh?_ ” Mike replied.

“Seeing as they’re bloody sore, from carrying the both of you?”

“Davy, sorry, man.” Peter patted Davy’s upper arm and slid his hand up to rub over his shoulder. “You’re right. I… I guess I wasn’t in the right headspace.”

Leah came along the corridor and squeezed between them, making Mike miss Davy and Peter’s next words.

“…and with things heating up for us professionally…”

“Yeah! Things are getting intense!” Micky rat-a-tatted his drum sticks along the wall and on Davy’s head.

“Don’t do that,” Davy warned him, before returning his focus to Peter.

“Intense.” Peter nodded at Micky. “That’s a good description. I’ve never been in a relationship as intense as this one.” His dark-amber gaze pinned Mike to the spot.

“So you lit out and went to clear your head, like this morning?” Mike queried, loading the _clear_ with as much irony as it would hold.

“Wow.” Peter blinked. “So you’re policing what I do in my free time, now?”

“If it affects the band, yeah.” Mike realized how that sounded and wished he hadn’t led with it. “And because I care about you.”

“Like…you care about Grace?”

“What?” He faced off with Peter. “What’s Grace got to do with anything? Wait. You’re _jealous_? Babe—”

“No!” Pete chopped the air with the edge of his hand. “I…okay. I wasn’t going to say anything, and not like this, but I don’t like how the situation with her, or Grace herself, is enabling you. It’s not healthy.”

“Hey, Big Peter.” Micky tried to get in between them and, when neither would budge, had to settle for a, “Guys, chill, huh?”

“You’ve regressed and gone full-on knight-protector.” Peter spoke over Mike’s loud exclamation. “With your innate need to nurture and…coddle and swaddle and hover and—”

“Bother?” asked Davy at the same time Micky said, “Smother?

“Parent!”

“The _hell?_ Par—what is this, _parent_? You—”

“And you’ve found an outlet to exercise it now so—”

 “ _Oi._ ” Davy joined the duo. “Stop the fighting. You’re scaring Junior here.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Micky. “He doesn’t like it.”

“You’re not helping,” Peter told him.

“But he’s right. I don’t like it, and neither does Davy.” Micky joined the trio, making it a huddle. He looked pale. “But I especially can’t stand it and I _won’t_ stand for it any longer.”

“Shit. Sorry, mate.” And why the hell was Davy comforting Micky? “Time, yeah? Plan 2I?”

“Yes. Implementing stat. Meaning you’re coming with me, both of you.” And Micky actually grabbed Mike’s left ear and Peter’s right and tugged both.

“Micky!” Peter cried, trying to fend him off and not get dragged away.

“Boy, you’re on dangerous ground,” Mike growled, trying to look as if he wasn’t being pulled along, in front of the mercifully few people using the corridor.

“Davy, why is it Plan 2I?” Peter called over as much of his shoulder as he could turn round—Micky was stronger than he looked.

“Stands for Two Idiots!” Davy shouted after him.

Micky didn’t let up until he’d half-dragged Mike and Peter through the Duke Box’s admin office to a small cupboard at the back, one to which he must have had the key, by the way its door opened quickly for him.

“You’d better have a damn good explanation for this,” Mike snarled, rubbing his ear.

“Why the stock room?”

That typical _Peter_ question had Mike clenching his teeth.

“Because, this.” Micky reached down for a squat bottle half-full of amber liquid. “Staff booze, for emergencies.” He scoffed at Mike’s outstretched hand. “Ya think? This is for me.” He took a hefty belt and coughed, then glared at the two of them in the glare of the overhead light bulb. Mike felt like a schoolkid up before the principal. “I was scared this would happen, if two group members got together. That’s why there’s a no-fraternization policy in spacecraft, for example.”

“ _What?_ ” summed up all Mike’s questions. His glance at Peter out of the corners of his eyes showed Peter looked equally as confused.

“You can’t keep doing this!”

Mike flinched: Micky looked a second away from banging his and Peter’s heads together. Not that there was room, in this stuffy cubby hole.

“Doing what, baby?” Peter asked.

Micky didn’t fall for the soft tone or the endearment. He stuck his chest out, his hands behind his back in parade rest position. “The two of you have issues you need to resolve once and for all. And right now. I see you acting as a result of them in your daily public behaviour, just as I see or hear you acting them out in private.”

“Wait a— _See or hear?_ Mick, you don’t watch—”

“Or listen?” Peter added.

“No! Well, somet— That’s not important! What’s important is you two facing and resolving your deals. _Davy’s_ shoulders ache? Yours must be _so_ sore, heaving around a bag that’s getting fuller and heavier as you go along, when you need to unpack it.”

“Micky…” Peter reached out a hand to him, his eyes searching Micky’s face. “How…long were you in therapy?”

“Two years.” Micky assessed Peter in the cupboard’s awful light. “Oh. You?”

“Two weeks.”

“Aced it, did ya?” Mike regretted the quip before it left his mouth.

“No. I dropped out. That surprise you?” Peter’s look was neutral, where it could have been frosty, and although far from warm, it lit Mike right through. “I went to work in a thread mill instead.”

“That…surprised me,” Mike admitted.

Peter’s face took on its impish half-grin. “It’s where I learned to cuss. And drink. The people were more fun, and I got paid.”

“Huh. You—”

“Oh no. No no. You don’t get to do this, not this time.” Micky wagged a finger in their faces. “You always do this—either one or the other of you deflects and derails with the cutesy and the love or the sex, rather than face up to stuff!”

“Mick, what _bag_? What _issues_?” Mike demanded.

“Where to start… Oh yes. There’s you with your conflicting need to control _and_ the longing not to, which comes out as forcing people to take it from you before you wrestle it back. And you, Peter, with all that bratty defiance, manipulating Mike, pushing his buttons… If you’re testing the boundaries, how about being responsible for setting and enforcing them yourself? And that’s just for starters.”

Micky took another breath as they gaped like fish at him. He knocked back another swig of whiskey. “You thought you had it contained, confined to the bedroom, but it’s not, is it? It’s not just fun and sex games.”

“ _Jesus,_ Mick _._ ” Mike took the bottle from Micky and replaced the top before Mick’s gesticulating sloshed it around. “Some stuff is private.” Or…should be, if the pad didn’t have thin walls and floors and ceilings and their volume…wasn’t so loud.

“Not when you play it out in public, it ain’t. Guys, you can’t keep up this circling and not landing. You just gotta rip off the Band-Aid and air out the wounds so they heal. I know it hurts.” He raised his voice over their objections. “I know you don’t even know where to start. But I know a way. Trust me?”

“ _No,_ man,” said Mike and Peter together.

“Well you should.” Micky glared and tugged a small twist of stiff, folded-over paper from his pocket. “I didn’t slip these into your drinks. I’m giving you the choice.”

“Of?” Mike tried to peer at the small brown wrapper.

“Pills to make you tell the truth.”

“Sodium Pentothal?” Mike yelped. “You made—”

“Close. And no. I didn’t make it. I… _procured_ it.” Micky looked shifty.

He did…help himself to stuff, Mike knew, and the packaging looked medical. Official.

“You two love each other, don’t you?” Micky asked, looking from one to the other. “ _Please_ , guys. You just gotta get everything out in the open.”

Jesus, his face and his tone… Mike looked at Peter and found Peter looking at him, just as stricken as Mike felt. “Give me that.” Mike held out a hand, at the same time Peter did.

Mick tipped out a rough-looking fat brown tablet into each outstretched palm, then helped himself to a bottle of cold drink from a crate and looked around the shelves. Mike held out a hand for the bottle, his other hand going to his pocket for a church key to open it for Mick. Throat-clearing from next to him made him pause.

“ _Hover,_ ” Peter fake-coughed, adding, “ _coddle,_ ” for good measure, his face looking straight ahead and innocent.

Before Mike could react, Micky knocked the metal cap off the glass bottle using the edge of a shelf. “Here. Take them with this. It’ll speed them into the system quicker. It’s the pharmacokinetic interaction. Hey, good name for a group, huh?”

“Sounds like it could be the Embrace’s new album,” Mike agreed, accepting the soda. “Here, Peter, you’d better take this first, ’cause you always do take first dibs, you know. Hey, seems I don’t need this pill!” He kept his face set at butter-wouldn’t-melt too.

Micky waved a dismissive hand. “He grew up the eldest kid in the family. It’s what they do.”

 _Huh._ Mike had never thought of that. “I still don’t see how this is supposed to play out,” he griped, swallowing his tablet and fighting not to gag at the vile taste.

“Okay. How would you solve this kinda dispute in Texas? Physical combat, right? And in Connecticut? Talking it through?” Micky spoke over their protests and denials. “Well, here in LA we go drag racing. So I devised a way for you. And my assistant…”

The rap on the door was Davy, who squeezed in and, at Micky’s nod, showed them both motorbike keys. “These are to the cycles Zed and Trip hired today, and they’re in the lot for the guys’ weekend break after the show.”

“But it’s only Thursday. They have two more gigs after tonight,” Peter pointed out.

“They know that now.” Davy rolled his eyes. “So, all set?”

“For what? Street racing for pink slips?” Mike scoffed.

“With added truth or dare?” Peter chimed in.

“Close.” Micky was in full government scientist mode. “Red light interrogation. Stoplight spotlight. Stoplight soul searchlight. I haven’t finalized the name of this technique yet. You’re going to race the Strip, from this end here up to Crescent Heights and back again if necessary.”

 “Wait. _Race?_ ” Mike asked.

“Race, because each red light is your chance to talk. An intersection interrogation. A question and answer session with the first one to reach the light asking the questions which will be answered _very_ truthfully. In fact, the answers will be more like revelations because the pills…might be coated in a little extra that’ll make you talk like you were vaccinated with a gramophone needle. So, it’s deep question and true confession time. Whatever. All that matters is you’ll ask the questions you need answers to, and tell the whole truth in return.”

“Micky…”

Mike wondered if Peter trailed off because his head was feeling as strange as Mike’s was.

“Both asking and answering will give you the chance to expose your fears and doubts.” He looked from one to the other and what he must have seen in their expressions made him grimace. “Yeah, the questions will hit you on the raw, but the answers, the confessions…they’ll wring your soul. And if you can’t handle the full weight of each other’s bag, well, then, that’s it for you, and I’m sorry.”

Mike risked a glance at Peter. This was crazy! “ _Race_ , why?” he asked again.

“Physical risk and emotional risk in a perfect balance to release the adrenaline and endorphins you’ll need.” Micky seemed to have reached the end of the rules, his explanations and rationale. “Go. Go sort this.”

“Or?” Mike demanded.

“Or… _nothing_.”

“That’s hardly a threat,” Mike scoffed, even as Davy nodded, backing Micky up.

“Mike. Think. _Nothing._ ” Peter indicated the four of them. “Understand?”

He did. And that…couldn’t be. “Give me that.” Mike grabbed a key from Davy.

“And me.” Peter took his.

“Take one more pill each in half an hour if you need extra intensity.” Micky handed them over.

Mike still wasn’t completely sure what they were doing, not even when he found himself on a borrowed motorbike at the intersection with Doheny Drive, ready to start. What he did know was that it was something there was no coming back from.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

_We’re…doing this?_ _We’re doing this._ Mike sneaked forward through the traffic, not that hard when it was thinner down this far end of the Strip. He smirked to see Peter catching on just as he moved off, just a foot or so…and got to the stoplights first. But once there, with Peter weaving into place next to him, Mike felt tongue-tied. This…this was crazy. Even for Micky. But Peter looked steadily at him.

“I’ll start with an easy one?” Because Mike would never back down, never forfeit. “Why are you so bent out of shape about this? You can’t be worried about my feelings for Grace!”

“Oh, but I am.”

Caught out, Mike over-revved the unfamiliar Suzuki and had to throttle back.

“Not because I think you want her.”

It was Peter’s turn to look smug—Mike understood he’d have to ask another question.  “Because…you’re always telling me to stop overprotecting you and now I’m looking out for her instead, you’re jealous?” He could only hope it didn’t sound as ridiculous to Peter as it did to him.

“ _No_ , Michael.”

Okay, so it probably did.

“Because I can’t handle your need to protect and control. Michael, you’re naturally… _parental_.” The play of emotions in Peter’s face as he delivered that word reached out and punched Mike. “That’s you. So what does this mean for us, for a future together?”

As Mike gaped, trying to grapple with that, Peter shot off. Mike hadn’t even noticed the lights had changed. And Peter beat him to the next one, at the North Doheny intersection. Deliberately, by angling through the line of cars, because he had more to say. “It’s what you do. Admit it!”

Micky’s crazy tablets must have kicked in, because Mike felt no smartass desire to quip that Peter’s statement, his demand, hadn’t been a question, and so Mike didn’t have to— “I do protect. I feel I have to. It’s all I know.” He spoke louder, to compete with a volley of shouts and jeers from the occupants of a T-Bird crossing Sunset just ahead of them at breakneck speed, cutting off a Ford Woody surf wagon to do so. “I took care of my mom as soon as I could after my dad left. Later, when she…when I couldn’t manage to help her in the way she needed, I had to go live with my aunt and uncle for a while.”

“I never knew that.”

He managed a half-grin, crooked though it was. “I took care of my cousins. And then Mom again. I feel if I don’t—” His shrug jerked the bike’s handlebars.

“Things will fall apart? That you’ve got no other role?” Peter didn’t wait for Mike’s reply to that, but it would have been in the affirmative. “That’s wrong. You don’t have to always be the provider. The strong one. You _know_ that, don’t you?”

Mike jumped at the car horn honking behind him, then the irate yell to move it. For a cowardly split second, he wanted to seize the opportunity to escape. To evade. He would have been obeying the law of the game. But Peter’s unwavering gaze pinned him in place. “I do in the front of my mind, but at the back… And now it’s such a thing. It’s my deal. My bag. Who I am. If I wasn’t…if I didn’t, who would I be? Would you even still like me?”

“No, Michael. I’d still _love_ you.”

It wasn’t until Mike opened the bike’s throttle to speed off that he realized his abrupt exit had been because he had a question. A burning one, too, no matter how he tried to squash it down in the LA night air, where the gasoline scent had thickened to leave no room for ocean now, and gaudy artificial lights had winked out the pastel of the day. The thrum, the life, of the Strip closed over him, amplified and strung-out by the drug Micky had given him.

Mike clenched his fists around the Suzuki’s handlebars, startled by the lurid play of colored light over his knuckles. Oh, that huge neon outline of the can-can dancer, or whatever she was, advertising that girlie, sorry, _burlesque_ joint. He hadn’t realized he’d gotten so far down the mile and a half section of road.

Sounds at his side forced him to look at Peter, weaving in place next to him, and he didn’t have to force himself to speak. “Do you? Love me? You don’t say it— No, that’s not it.” He might have wanted to whisper this, but he had to raise his voice over a blare of music as the door to the strip joint opened and a trio of guys went in. “Sometimes I don’t feel it. No… not that. It’s that I feel I love you more and I’m scared it’s imbalanced. I…please answer.”

They were stationary, so the wind wasn’t whipping around Peter’s head, meaning he couldn’t pretend not to hear because of that or the street din, not when there was a lull like this. Mike wasn’t prepared for the hollow laugh Peter forced out, or the stricken look taking over his face.

“I schemed and tricked you into it, Michael. Into falling for me. I flirted and flaunted myself and hooked you. I created it, this…this us. This MichaelandPeter. And now I don’t feel it’s real. That it’ll last. That I can make it last. I don’t feel I deserve it, after fooling you and creating your feelings for me.”

And again, while Mike was gasping at _that_ punch to the gut, Peter sped away. No, not this time. Mike set off in pursuit, weaving through the cars and bikes and people trawling this section after Hilldale, as they always were, for its cluster of clubs, even on a week night. He didn’t wait for a stoplight. “You’re wrong. That’s not right. How could it be when I fell for you the first second I saw you?” Mike shouted, uncaring who heard. “ _Peter!_ ”

The last shout was caused by a different concern—Peter turned sharply and cut through the traffic, crossing to the other side of the Strip. Mike accelerated and swerved so hard his rear wheel lost traction. He fought his instincts so he didn't counter-steer or close the throttle in reaction. Over-correcting would be bad enough, but, God forbid, the rear tire regaining traction too quickly would result in a high-side. His heart thudded as he pulled into the small front space of the Hamburger Haven, tailing Peter. It was much too early for the late-nighters so they had relative privacy.

Peter had gotten there first— “At first sight? Really? Tell me about that first sight.”

“Sure.” This he could speak about too. It wanted to tumble free. “In the line to get on the Hoot Night bill.” Mike gestured toward where the Troubadour was down on North Santa Monica. “You were sitting out on the sidewalk. I almost tripped over your legs.”

“Legs I stuck out when I saw you.”

“You couldn’t have missed me if you’d tried, the way I was drawing closer to you. Grooving on you. Okay, creeping on you. Let’s…call it staring at you, sitting there, reading your book.” Mike wanted to reach across the gap between them now and take Peter’s hand, as he’d reached down then and pulled Peter to his feet. The tinny Tannoy music coming from the burger joint scraped at him. “Remember what I did?”

Peter…didn’t smile at the memory. “Tossed a T-shirt and shorts at me and told me my wetsuit was unsuitable.” _Protecting me. Taking care of me._ He didn’t need to voice those last two sentences out loud.

“Ogling you. Lusting after you. Couldn’t help it, way that suit clung to everything. I guess I thought I might get to see you peel off. Instead, I got to put my hands on you, man! When you asked me to help you with that zipper that always sticks, I— _Peter!_ ” Mike barely stayed on the back of his cycle when Peter did a nought to sixty and left him in his dust. Determined, Mike wheeled in a half-circle and followed him. Within half a minute, Peter was stopped at the light at the Clark intersection.

“Michael.” Peter’s tone spoke of confession, not question. “That zip is fine. Always has been. Just like I don’t have to be stretching half-naked or bent over with my ass in the air doing yoga on the sundeck when you get up. That Saturday, when we got together, you mentioned about me wriggling around in my tight pants, swiveling my hips, trying to tell you something?” Mike nodded. “You seemed to think it was a recent thing. You never realized how long I’ve been doing it. How long it took to work. That I _still_ do it.”

“ _No._ ” The lights changed, so they had to move, both keeping pace as Mike called across the chasm. “I grooved on _you_ , right from the start. Not just your looks. When I got to know you, I loved you more, Pete! You fascinate me and I can’t see that ending. How your mind works, things you think about, your concerns, your interests, your way of being. I stole your damn _book_ , man!”

“ _What?_ ”

Mike hoped, really hoped, that was a tiny thread of amusement in Peter’s question, that the tight ache in his tone was easing up. “The paperback you were reading that Monday. I thought you’d just assume you’d misplaced it…and that I could use it as an excuse to talk to you again, apologize for having, I don’t know, picked it up by mistake with my stuff. I read it too. Cover to cover. Didn’t make sense of near half of it, either. Not even with a dictionary. But that didn’t stop me falling for you.”

“You—”

“Were jealous.” Mike doubted Peter had been going to say that. Didn’t care. This, this confessing, out in the trapped exhaust-fume heat and competing sights and sounds and lights of the Strip, was too…seductive. “Of Lynne, from that first party we gave, remember?”

“You dated her after!”

“I know. And Valerie, nice as she was—”

“And Judy?”

He’d known that would come, at some point. Seemed it was here, now, at the stoplights near the liquor store.

“Tell me, Michael. Isn’t that how this technique works? I know you ran her off, somehow.”

So he did, had to, _wanted to_ , confess to Peter how he’d gotten shot of Judy and why. Peter said nothing, asked no questions, made no comments. Did he believe Mike? Mike couldn’t tell, with him staring straight ahead like that. All he got was a glint of Peter’s eyes, any tawny in them hardened to a dark brown under the traffic lights.

“She was using you, Peter! Endangering you, setting you up to take the fall like that! I couldn’t stand it. Or you knowing that she was doing nothing but lying to you. It would hurt you.” More rattled free. “Peter, please. I know what you said, but this was before we were together.” Peter finally looked at him. He didn’t need to say anything. “I made a unilateral decision. Left you no choice. Gave you no knowledge,” Mike muttered, his head bowed. In acknowledgment. In penance. He raised it at the sound of Peter’s cycle—Peter was speeding away.

Peter shot through the next light, despite it being red, Mike followed him seconds later, having to swerve around a station wagon crossing innocently and blamelessly in front of him, in between him and Peter. Where the hell were they? Somewhere tourists were taking photos, although the long, low one-story club looked anonymous enough to Mike. Like most of the Strip, it must have been something else, back in the Golden Age.

“I understand about Judy.”

Mike almost jumped—they weren’t at the lights, just stopped in traffic.

“But you dated Lynne…And…more.”

“More.” _Toby. Clarisse. Amanda. Jo-Ann. Even Lola and Leah._ Not dated. Not even schmoozing, as business contacts. “I, well, I guess the verb is flirt with women who I think might go after you. Not that I want ’em dangling after me, particularly. More to neutralize them, make them, I don’t know, honorary group members. Monkee girls. And if they do come on to me, like they think there might be more one day, that’s fine. Keeps them in line.” _Jesus._ Micky must’ve stolen the weapons-grade Sodium Pentothal from the Central Intelligence Services! Probably from Honeywell that time—

“You… do that to Micky, too.”

“ _What?_ No! I… _Jesus._ ” He searched his soul. “I used him when I was lonely. In that time before you moved in…and after, when I was wanting you.” His voice was barely above a whisper—he’d be surprised if Peter could catch it. Or Mike: it was Mike’s turn to speed off now, shimmying around and across, to rest on the apron of sidewalk near the club on the corner, displacing people who happened to be there taking photos of the towering Bunny logo. He didn’t get off the bike—they hadn’t been told they could—but he was bent over, trying to catch his breath and not throw up.

A hand rubbed his back. Peter didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Mike straightened and looked at him. “You got here first,” Peter said.

“I did, didn’t I.” Mike exhaled. “I love you, darlin’. I love everything about you. You didn’t trick me into anything. You know that’s true, seeing as I’m pumped full of fuck knows what.”

“I doubt even Micky knows what,” Peter deadpanned.

Mike almost bought into it, but Micky’s words rang. _Deflect. Derail._ “I tell you all the time how I feel, but you hold back, Peter. You don’t tell me. Not really.”

Peter’s eyes shone diamond bright, but no tears fell. “I’m suspicious and jealous and insecure. You know there’s a verb for it, for me, for how I get? To Peter out. Capital P. I think you’ll get tired of me. Move on. So I feel I have to keep you interested. Off-balance. Guessing. Which means I hold back emotionally.”

“Is that why even when we’re intimate you’re always joking, making puns, riffing? Acting up…acting out?”

“Again, I’m scared that you’ll get bored, that you—” He almost shouted over Mike’s attempt to protest. “That you’ll turn off me.”

“No, Peter. _No._ ” Frightened his words weren’t enough, Mike reached out, right there in the middle of Sunset Strip and cupped Peter’s face. He held him, keeping Peter’s eyes locked on his, pouring all he could, all he was, into that touch and his gaze, for as long as it took. “You’re the one for me. From my first sight to my last breath,” he whispered.

“Do you get it now?” he murmured at last, waiting a beat for some Peter quip about _Not yet, but I will later, I hope_ , but none came. Just a tiny nod, Peter’s eyes, glinting high amber, still on his. Did he feel as flayed raw as Mike did? And did he feel as close to Mike as Peter did to him?

“Like there’s no skin between us,” Peter whispered, his voice catching.

Mike smiled, watching Peter’s lips turn up into a matching one. “We have a ways to go yet. And while being in the middle of a noisy crowd might be Mick’s idea of a good place to think—” He breathed out a half-laugh when Peter did. “We can do better. Come with me?”

“But we said we’d go to the end.” Peter indicated the road ahead.

“And we will. Because that’s where we’ll turn off.”

“I’m with you, Michael.”

Mike didn’t need to say how happy that made him. Peter could read it in his face, just as he could in Peter’s, especially when they reached Crescent and turned left, to go up into the canyon, to face the rest of what this crazy, dangerous, _beautiful_ night had to bring.


	20. Chapter Twenty

This was the most far-out trip Peter had ever taken. As they climbed, following the bends of the road, he tried to puzzle out the extra layers to this. Well, the drug was different, of course. And maybe the added depth was the physical dimension, the knowing where he was going geographically, but not emotionally, or psychologically. Or maybe, as Micky had said, the adrenaline rush and endorphin release?

Whatever it was, he couldn’t believe what he’d exposed—and what Mike had laid bare—and that there’d been no judgment, no censure: just love and understanding and _acceptance._ So yeah, a real far-out trip. He agreed with Mike that Micky’s method of using a bustling crowd, a buzzing public forum, as the backdrop to significant moments was crazy. While Peter loved the Strip, liked taking its pulse, feeling its vibe, right now he was grateful for the relative quiet of ascending into the second and smaller mountain where even the wind buffeting his face and the sky pressing down on the top of his head felt different.

Seeming to catch his thoughts, as Peter tended to see his, Mike looked over. _All right?_ asked the arch of one eyebrow and the widening of Mike’s eyes. _Yes_ , replied the tilt of Peter’s head and its slight nod. They made their way down into the glen and slowed to find and navigate the tiny track they’d be taking. Off his bike and the engine killed, Peter scrabbled in his pocket for his second tablet, unsurprised to see Mike fishing his out too. Both blenching at having to dry-swallow such disgusting-tasting pills, they took them together.

It was too soon to experience any effect from it of course, but Peter felt the night settle and set around them. The dark-moving trees above them swished their shadows over the ground in front of them and waved the scents of sage and laurel in the air around them. The night felt fat with promise, and Peter grinned wide.

“Huh?” Mike queried.

“I love you.”

“Oh.”

Even in the moonlight, Peter could see Mike blushing. It made him grin more. And it was true. He did. _Oh, so much._

They’d hidden supplies here, in this off-any-beaten-track ravine, when they’d been planning to camp out here, and hadn’t retrieved them yet, but Peter didn’t think they’d have been disturbed. He was right, he saw, when they parked their bikes and found the hollow eucalyptus tree. “We need a flashlight—” Peter laughed as Mike laid the very item on a branch of the tree whose spreading, dancing green closed off their hideout.

“But do we need the tent?” Mike wondered.

“Hmm.” It wasn’t cold. Not likely to rain. “Good point. It works more as a metaphor, anyway.”

“A… Oh. Heh.”

Peter had thought that, when they’d carried the supplies here a week or so back. A pup tent was made from two halves, and Mike had laid the half he’d carried on the ground and Peter had folded his half into position on top of that, for them to snap the two sections together to become one. And when up properly, its foundations in place, the structure was much more than the sum of its two halves could ever be.

Peter fished around for the groundsheet, though, and flicked it out flat to sit cross-legged on it.

“I got here first,” Mike said, before Peter could speak. True. He patted the sheet and Mike sat, facing him, their knees touching. He paused and Peter wondered if it was to feel the night thicken around him, too. He reached for Peter’s hand and held it in his, on his lap, smoothing his fingers along Peter’s and rubbing his thumbs around the wrist, pressing into the bones. “Peter, what do you need?”

“I need you,” Peter answered at once, the words tumbling as loose as pebbles stirred by waves. “For me. Not to manage or protect me—to love me. To let me be me, to let me let my emotions free. I have a lot of them. I like to feel things, and I hate that my reactions upset you. When I cried”—he trusted Mike would know what he meant—“it was because the feel of you, inside me, you _coming_ in me struck me for the first time when we made love. And why it’s called _make love_ was suddenly clear to me too.”

Mike shifted a little to bow his head.

“Yes, there are excuses. We’d taken it slow and easy after those few first days of hard, fast penetrative sex. Yes, I was half-stoned. But it was beautiful, Mike. I want to feel it again, not feel I have to supress it because it bothers you, or have you supress it for me, in trying to make me feel better or whatever. I know you weren’t raised to show that side of yourself—”

Mike raised his head, showing his tear-bright eyes. “But it’s there.”

“And I love you for it.” Peter waited a few seconds, to see if Mike would rub the heels of his hands into his eyes, or scrub his knuckles into them. He didn’t and Peter loved him more for it. “What do you need?” he whispered, lacing his fingers into Mike’s, to make their hands into one.

“Hmm. Let me think how to put it.”

“No.” Peter shook his head. “Just speak.”

“Well…you know I’m always telling you how much I adore you? Because I do, from the top of your shiny-haired head to your pointy little ears to your cute pixie nose—”

“Commonly referred to as a ski-slope nose—”

“Wouldn’t know. Ain’t never been skiing. If I may continue, without being derailed?” The look Mike threw him was one he deserved. “To your long, sexy toes… Damn. Lost the thread and skipped ahead, didn’t I. Well, and everything in between.”

“Go on.” Peter liked the list. “In between like…”

“Oh, your off-center belt buckle and mismatched socks.” Mike chuckled. “Odd socks because everything in life is different. No, because life is uncertain— What it is?”

“Because I usually lose socks in the laundry,” Peter admitted. and his breath escaped in a whoosh when with an, “Oh, _Peter_!” Mike sprang and pushed him flat. He folded his arms beneath his head and Mike lay alongside him, propped on an elbow.

“And there’s those amazing eyes with their red-gold lashes, and that dimple there and that little button right _there_ …” Mike stroked each feature he named, making Peter wriggle. “And so many freckles I can’t count ’em, although I plan to, one day, and, Lord have mercy, that chest and those arms and those strong, toned legs. And you know you have the best ass in the whole of Texas or California.”

“Huh?”

Mike shrugged. “I don’t know any other places. When we travel to more places, I’ll be able to say there, too.”

“Ah, okay. Was…that first bit or that last bit your question?” He doubted it.

“No.” Mike booped the tip of Peter’s nose. “I say all that, but you don’t. About me, I mean.”

Wow. That must have taken a lot. Or maybe not, with the truth drug banging around their systems. “It’s what I said earlier, about keeping some mystery. Holding back. But I adore you adoring me.”

“I’ll bet. I’d like it too.”

“I’m…shy. Feel awkward,” Peter confessed, hanging his head.

Mike leaned lower. “You don’t have to _tell_ me. You could show me. Although I’d like an endearment, perhaps. Like you’re my darlin’. My sugar.”

“You’re my honey.” Peter had thought that right at the start, that Mike’s voice was like slow, thick, smoke-infused honey, only Mike had flinched when he’d said the word. “Because you felt guilty, about…and oh, you low-key flirt with Honeywell too, by the way.”

“I kinda know that,” Mike confessed, able to follow the fragments of Peter’s disjointed thinking. “Consider it stopped.”

“I do. And you consider the word reclaimed.”

“I’d like that.” Mike ran his nose down Peter’s to give a gentle rub to the tip in thanks.

“And yes, I’d love to show you. What do you need, Michael?”

“What do— When you were learning massage and practiced on us? I really dug all that and I wanted it to be just for me. The scented stuff, the soft lights…”

“I’ll keep it just for you,” Peter promised. “What?” He couldn’t interpret Mike’s embarrassed half-chuckle, half-snort.

“You wanted me to go full Texan on you? I want you to go full hippie on me. Full _Peter_ , I should say. Because we’re reclaiming that word too.”

“I’d like that. But I don’t have any stuff with me,” Peter regretted.

Mike jerked his head in the direction of the bikes. “Let’s go check the saddlebags.” He helped Peter to his feet, pulling him into a brief clinch as he did so, and wrapped an arm around him to pull him close as they walked.

“Whiskey? No, Scotch.” Peter traced the little figure of a man striding proud in white breeches and black top hat and cane on the red label of the full bottle he pulled from the bag on his, or rather Trip’s, cycle.

“Goes with these.” Mike held up plastic cups from his, or Zed’s carrier. “Civilized.”

Peter’s next find was soda, Mike’s a bottle opener. “Organized.”

He brought out a handful of incense sticks, and Mike matched them with a lighter. “Very.”

Peter almost dropped the heavier than he’d expected electronic gadget he pulled free next. “Wow! A portable Carry-Corder player!”

“And compact cassettes.” Mike opened the small case to show him. “I’m sensing a theme here. Like, full Peter?”

“I’d say you were right.” Wordlessly, Peter showed him the four-finger lid of dope in its baggie.

“Got ya covered.”  Mike produced a pack of cigarette papers.

“Promising,” Peter had to admit. “Huh.” Chocolate candy bars rustled as he retrieved them.

Mike made a matching crinkle with the bag of chips he pulled out from his saddlebag. “I’ll see ya and I’ll raise ya.”

“All English brands,” Peter observed, wondering which deli in Hollywood catering to the ex-pat British community the Embrace had raided. “Including these.” He peered at the writing on the strip of condoms. “ _Coloured?_ ”

“Well, this seems…European too,” came Mike’s comment on the small plastic bottle of viscous liquid he handed over for Peter to read.

“Rubbers _and_ lubricant? Intriguing. Ah. This is what we’re looking for. Massage oil.” Peter fished it out.

“And…” Mike gave up on words and simply held the large soft feather aloft.

“Curious, no?” Peter remarked. “As is…” He showed Mike the fat pillar-shaped low-burn-temperature soy candles he doubted were for illumination. Mike responded with the lighter, again.

“But no means of shelter, no real food, no water, no extra clothes—what the hell kind of weekend away were they planning?” Mike yelped.

“A fun one?” Peter heaved out, between guffaws, and Mike, racked with gales of laughter too, struggled to hold Peter up when he collapsed against him.

“Babe, I know we have a whole heap more talking to do, and we will—we are—but can we take a time-out?” Mike begged. “The stream’s over there, remember, and I’d sure like a dip.”

“Yeah. And last one in’s a…” Peter couldn’t think of anything, not with Mike stripping down to his skin, skin that glowed pearl in the moonlight, moonlight that traced his slim, wiry lines. Mike smirked and turned to dash to the water and Peter heard a splash seconds later. Throwing off his clothes, he grabbed the towel they’d stashed and followed…to find Mike frozen in the water and trying to signal to him without moving his arms.

“Peter, don’t come nearer!” Mike hissed without moving his lips. He risked the tiniest turn of his head back toward where Peter stood on the bank.

“What?”

“Over there!”

There seemed to be the other bank, a slope when Peter could see nothing, but then saw…a pair of glowing orange-tawny eyes at the same time as Mike squeaked, “Mountain lion!”

“But we’re in a canyon,” Peter replied, to recoil at the loud, heavy splash that came.

“And _it’_ s in the water!” Mike yelped.

“Play dead,” Peter instructed, trying to recall— “No, make noise.”

“Which— _no!_ _Get back!_ ” Mike ordered him.

Too late. Peter had waded into the waist-high stream and trudged to put himself between Mike and the animal splashing and swishing toward them. He laughed. “It’s Peaches, Mike! Half of Peaches and Queen. They’re canyon animals. Well, dwellers. Personalities. People who live here put messages in their collars for one another.” He reached and the big cat accepted a brief scratch of its thick fur before swiping a rough tongue over his hand.

“I…was pretty sure it was a lion,” Mike admitted.

“Oh, he is. Fairly big one too,” Peter informed him, to be almost knocked over by the waves Mike caused in rushing from the stream. He was back within the beam of the flashlight when Peter, patting himself dry, reached him. Saying nothing beyond a, “So, snakes yes, lions no?” to let Mike know it was fine, Peter held out the towel, but didn’t let Mike take it, not when Peter could dry him, lingering on the parts he liked best. Which was most of Mike’s body, that Peter had glowing when he’d done.

He sniffed the incense sticks and lit a woodsy-scented one. The portable recorder was easy enough to figure out how to work, although his attempts to set the mood weren’t helped by the idiosyncratic labelling of the compact cassettes.

‘“Groovy sounds,’” Peter read from one.

‘“Vibes I’m digging this week.’” Mike pointed to another.

‘“Songs Trip thinks are boss.’” Peter sniggered.

‘“Ioan rates these.’” Mike frowned. “None of the Warm Embrace are called Ioan, right?”

“Who knows?” Peter selected that one at random. He spread out the towel for Mike to lie on, on his back.

“Not face down?” Mike looked at the container of massage oil.

“Not yet, because I have things to say and do, and me massaging you will probably turn into sex and we’re not using that to deflect.”

“Yeah, we— Wait, we’re taking what _Micky_ says for guidance now?” Mike queried.

“Well, he’s far from dumb. He’s smart and insightful.”

“Perceptive.” Mike nodded.

“Which is…scary,” Peter remarked.

“Let’s never tell him,” Mike agreed.

“Umm. So, adoring…” Peter drew his hands down Mike’s long, long legs, stopping at his feet. He lifted one but not into his lap to work on the sole. He raised it to his mouth instead and nibbled on the big toe, delighting in Mike’s wriggles.

“You did that, that first Saturday,” Mike gasped. Peter sucked. “Not that though. I wanted you to, though.”

“I know. And I am now.” Peter stopped, however, to talk. He adjusted the flashlight. Candlelight would be better, but he wasn’t risking having one burning out in the open. He inhaled the fragrance from the incense stick, the herbaceous scent of patchouli and palo santo filling his lungs and head. “You know I love _you_ , who you are, how you think, your love of music, your caring and your sense of rightness and fun, for instance. And I think I’ve done a good job of convincing you how valid you are as a person, how much you have, how vast your potential is. So now I’m going to show you how much I love your looks too. I’m starting at the top.”

And he did, scratching into the scalp of Mike’s wavy hair that grew twice as thick and fast as any of the other three’s, to have Mike humming contentedly within seconds. _Good. Mike deserves this._ “And your nose…” Peter ran his finger down the elegant length and shape, then moved to his chin cleft. Him touching Mike’s moles tickled Mike, to begin with, but he was soon rubbing against Peter’s finger as it went from one to another, joining the dots.

“I adore your sinewy lines,” Peter confessed, tracing Mike’s wiry musculature all over. “Such lean strength. And all your fur…” He drew his nails down Mike’s chest, along the trail to the thicker bush underneath. Mike was purring louder than any mountain or canyon lion when Peter signalled it was time for him to turn over, then jumped when Peter first slapped his ass, and made a noise that could only be called a squeak when Peter bent low to nuzzle one cheek.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

Mike froze under him and Peter wondered if he could feel against his skin the answering smile that his shocked reaction pulled from Peter. He did intend to…go further, as this foreshadowing had intimated, but the anticipation was good. Or evil. “You have such a nice tush,” he commented, stroking the slopes of Mike’s ass cheeks.

“A surprisingly lush bum, it’s been called.” Mike turned his head to view Peter.

“Bum?” Peter considered the English-ism. “I’m guessing by Amanda rather than Davy. Or Zed,” he added, thinking of the evidence of the guy’s inclinations they’d found in the cycle’s bag. “Whoever, they’re right. And remember how you said you don’t bite my nipples enough? Well, I don’t finger you enough.”

“Jeez, Peter! I’m digging a trench here already!” Mike whined, shifting to accommodate his erection.

“Shhhh _._ Lie back and think of hippies.” Peter started on the back of Mike’s head, first pressing a kiss just under his hairline, like Mike did to him, loving the quiver this jolted through Mike. Peter made sure his bangs stroked Mike’s skin—Mike really dug Peter’s silky hair.

He rubbed small circles an inch in from each ear, and pressed his thumbs in to trace a spiral pattern downward. By the time he reached the atlas and then the axis, Mike was humming. Peter warmed some oil between his hands and smoothed down the nape of Mike’s neck to the tops of his shoulders, eliciting a sigh. Working on loosening any knots in the muscles between Mike’s shoulder blades had him moaning. Peter stopped.

“Hey!” Mike complained, then shivered when Peter scratched down his back instead.

“Don’t want you too relaxed and falling asleep on me.”

Mike scoffed. “Hardly. Although…I did dream about this, a while back.”

“What? This?” Peter trailed down to the sacrum. “Or…”

“Lower, yeah. You came into my room to practice massage and you dripped oil there and, well, you can guess the rest. The whole shebang.”

Even yesterday Peter might have made some awful quip about _the hole he bang, you mean_. Now, he looked into Mike’s night-dark, star-bright eyes, almost humbled at the confession. Mike deserved…the whole everything. “Bet I didn’t do this,” he whispered, bending to trace his tongue down Mike’s cleft, making Mike freeze then tremble under him. He hadn’t done this to Mike yet and a pang of joy shot through him at bringing this pleasure to him.

Gripping Mike’s hips and using his thumbs to spread Mike’s cheeks a little, Peter pressed his face into Mike’s crack, pausing for Mike’s long exhalation that could have been an exclamation, or a prayer. Peter circled Mike’s hole with the tip of his tongue, then flicked up and down just over the opening. He switched to lapping right across it with the flat of his tongue before making a fat swirly lick up one side and then the other.

“ _Peter…_ ” Mike breathed, his eyes dazed.

‘“It ain’t no damn ice-cream cone, boy?”’ Peter quoted Mike’s words from the last time Peter had given him head.

“No, lick away.” Mike swallowed. “It’s…” His words dissolved into a whimper when Peter blew across the wetness he’d left, then a guttural groan at Peter spearing the point of his tongue inside his channel. Peter switched between licking across and spiking in, deeper with each pass, loving how Mike softened under his efforts, his tight pucker loosening.

“You’d better turn over,” he whispered.

“Huh?” Mike’s reply came part-bemused, part-disgruntled.

“Oh, I will finger you. I promised. Just, I know you like to pull my hair when—” He had to move back when Mike tipped over. Despite his words, his promise, Peter dallied a little, in lying down too, between Mike’s spread legs, and resting his head in the hollow of Mike’s stomach. He wanted a quick taste of Mike, swollen and leaking, wanted to capture that pre-cum for himself. Him taking Mike to the back of his throat distracted Mike enough that he probably didn’t notice Peter lifting his legs over his shoulders.

He noticed Peter mouthing down to his balls, though, and sucking on one, if his yell was any indication. Pushing his face lower still, again, Peter gave one final lick to Mike’s loosened hole before groping for the small bottle of lube they’d helped themselves to. Mike gasped as Peter slid two slick fingers deep, seeking out and caressing the bump of Mike’s prostate, and Peter pushed himself up Mike’s body to catch the gasp in his mouth. He swore he could feel the sparks of pleasure shooting through Mike, or maybe that was just the way Mike writhed underneath him, or kissed him back, sharing the sensations with him.

“So hot…so tight,” Peter murmured, tipping another drop of lube into his palm and tilting his hand to make the liquid run along the third finger he was inserting into Mike, to make him ride his hand. Suddenly Mike stilled and even in the muted light, Peter could see a flush stain his whole body.

“Peter, what—” Mike broke out in a sweat. “The _hell_?” He was arching now, away from Peter, squirming and struggling. “It’s… _God_ , I don’t know. Hot? An itch? Real deep. I can’t—”

 “Michael, _easy_. I’m gonna pull out—” Peter started.

“No! Don’t move. Dunno if I could take it. Everything’s… It’s too much, man! Holy fucking hell, I need to come.” Mike groaned.

Peter stilled the hand that was overpleasuring Mike, but Mike twisted, impaling and fucking himself. Peter grasped Mike’s cock and stroked, Mike’s hand joining his to force a quick, hard pace. His ass flexed around Peter and Peter had never felt anything so amazing, or seen anything as breath-stealing as Mike’s face at that moment. Peter’s cock, trapped between their bodies and stimulated by Mike undulating, throbbed as much Mike had said his ass was, and he knew he wouldn’t last long.

“Oh God. Jesus. _Fuckkkk…_ ” Mike’s prayers or laments trailed off into a long moan of sound as he arched and came, his hot cum shooting free of their hands to coat his stomach and chest. “Peter…don’t…fuckme,” he gasped, his eyes warning Peter.

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” Peter confessed, pulling his hand free of the clutch of Mike’s body to hold him in position and blatantly rub against him. His breath stopped as his orgasm claimed him, milking him, spilling his cum on Mike’s skin.

Mike panted where he lay, his breath harsh rasps. Peter wasn’t much better, and his weight, where he’d collapsed, must have been crushing Mike. “Thefuck?” Mike wheezed, forcing one eye open, then jumped as if a live wire had touched him.

“That seemed…intense.”

“ _Intense?_ It was like getting hit by a _truck_ , man!”

“But stimulation that strong? I… Oh—” Seemed Mike had the same thought; he propped himself up on his elbows, twitching with a leftover spasm, watching Peter scrabble for the lubricant. Peter read the words on the container, then raised his eyes to Mike.

“Give me that bottle.”

Peter passed it over and Mike squinted at the label then eyed him. “You knew _glijmiddel_ meant lube, but not that _warming_ meant warming?”

“It’s near enough to the German for me to work out it translates as ‘slide agent’, so I took a guess that was…” He stopped when Mike paled.

“Don’t you ever”— Mike inhaled and flinched at an after-spasm—“ _take a guess_ at anything that’s going in my _ass_ , man! That’s non-negotiable. We clear?”

“But you liked it,” Peter protested, dabbing at him with the towel.

Mike raised an eyebrow at him.

“I might like to try it too,” Peter muttered.

“Oh you will, and when you least expect it, boy.” Mike pointed a warning finger at him but couldn’t keep up his act and laughed, then hissed in reaction as he stretched for the whiskey. Peter busied himself with the grass and rolling papers. A minute later Mike wrapped an arm around Peter’s nape to pull him in for a kiss and…catch Peter by surprise by administering him mouth-to-mouth Scotch.

“Oh, very smooth. And I don’t mean the drink.” Peter licked his lips. “Probably the only way it’ll ever taste okay.” He repaid the favour by taking Mike’s face in both hands and kissing him in return…and passing the hit he’d just ripped from the joint to him.

“Goddamn hippie,” came in a smoke-tinged Texan-accented curl.

Peter flashed his winsome grin. “But I’m _your_ goddam hippie.”

“Yeah.” Mike’s voice caught and that and him cupping Peter’s face, to stare into his eyes, made the silly joke take on a deeper meaning. “You are, Peter. My goddam gorgeous hippie boy. Who just near enough killed me. And what a helluva way to go.”

Peter settled, lying next to Mike, sharing the pillow they made of their discarded clothes. Catching sight of the pilfered booze and snacks made him laugh. “Let’s hope the Embrace have a communal view of possessions, seeing as we helped ourselves to theirs.” A thought struck him. “Maybe it’s like we swapped—d’you think Zed and Trip went back to the pad, in our place?”

Mike slanted his head to kiss Peter’s forehead, the nearest bit he could reach. “If they did, means it’s Trip’s turn to cook. Hey, that should confuse Toby, if she calls round.”

“Oh, she won’t notice.” Peter took a drag of the joint. “You know what she’s like,” he continued, through the exhalation. “She thought Mr. Schneider was me, I think, once. She talked through her problem with him, then thanked him and kissed his cheek.”

Mike spluttered, almost snorting out his Scotch down his nose. He shoved the bottle away. “This seems safer,” came his comment as he took a hit of the joint. Peter was soon fishing in his pants pockets for his fob…with its special key. He turned the seemingly decorative circle of metal inside the key’s head, the mechanism splitting the shaft into two, making a gap wide enough to hold the stub of the joint, and the turned circle now making the head into two finger rests.

“Keys are suggestive.” Peter blew out smoke, the earthy scent blending with the incense. “There’s the shaft, and the head—to which torque must be given, which I personally protest is the wrong way round…”

Mike caught on and laughed. “Remember when I borrowed your keys once, and drove myself crazy tryin’ to find what that one was for, in the pad and the garage…”

“And then I showed you what it was for.”

“Yeah.” The first time they’d smoked up. “Didn’t you say it was a key you got when you were twenty-one? Like, the key of the door?”

“Of a different kind of door. Wow. Keys are symbolic. Yeah. Steve gave it to me when he was up before the draft board. In case it was found on him.” He peeped at Mike out of the corner of his eye.

Curiosity won out over Mike's instinctive recoil at the mention of _that_ person and at the knowledge he'd been using a possession of _that_ person. He told himself Peter had probably never thoguht about whose it was because him and _that_ person— “He didn’t get drafted?” Mike couldn’t see it…

“No. He went the crazy route. I kept this though.” Peter held out the stub for Mike to take the last hit.

“You were going to try that way.”

“I was.” Peter understood.

“No need now.” Not after all Mike’s efforts to avoid all of them being called up. “I know you’re still angry at what I did.”

“No. I was, at how you did it.” Peter pinched out the roach. “But I made peace with it. We moved past that.”

Mike pulled him down to lie with his head on his shoulder, and tucked an arm around him to keep him safe. And to play with that silky hair he loved. He dropped a kiss on the top of Peter’s head and smiled when Peter gave an answering press of his lips to Mike’s skin. They lay in a lazy haze, in their own world, where the dark branches sheltered them, and the dark night sky above them glimmered with stars for them.

“How would you describe me?” Peter asked, making Mike jump.

“Oh, I don’t know. Depends on how I’m feeling.”

“Like?”

Mike wriggled at the deep baritone. Little tease knew what he was doing. “Well, when I’m in a normal frame of mind, your hair is golden brown or dark blond or sandy or reddish-blond, say. But if I’m hungry, it’s butterscotch or caramel or fudge, dig.” He patted around for the bag of chocolate toffees. “The same with your eyes,” he said, around the fat candy he popped into his mouth—he’d missed dinner. And lunch. “If I’m feeling poetic, they’re amber or topaz.”

“Aww.” Peter nibbled at the collarbone under him.

“Ow. And when I’m whimsical, you’re a little pixie or a sprite. But, in totality, you’re…”

Peter leaned on Mike’s chest so they were nose to nose. “What, Michael?”

“You’re the music in me.” Mike’s voice husked over. “You’re all the songs I haven’t written yet.”

“ _Wow_ , Michael. That’s…so far out it’s _transcendental_.” Peter sank to Mike’s side again, hugging closer.

“How do you, me?” Mike had to ask.

“You’re my Texas wild cat.” Peter made a purring noise as he ruffled Mike’s chest hair.

“Brat.” Mike pinched Peter’s nipple, grinning at the squeal and writhe. “And you are. I guess the stuff we were talking about, it fits with your quirk about being sometimes, well, dominated during sex?”

“I guess.” Peter buried his head, but answered. “Pushed to the limit, forced to take more—pushing to test limits…it’s mixed up and not so healthy in real life, right? I’ll…keep it just for sex.”

“ _We’ll_ keep it. Like me spanking your cheeky ass when you need that. Which…is part of my need to be in control and to have someone challenge me for it. That’s just a bit of who we are. And there’s no shame or judgment about any need.”

Peter lay silent and Mike could feel him thinking. “Intense?” he asked, picking up a thought.

“It’s been very.” Peter moved, swinging into a cross-legged sit. “With no time to hang with the others. Or other people.”

“Like your surfing.” Mike nodded, sitting in turn. “You need that space.”

“What do you have?”

“I haven’t been offroading in a forever. With ma oil-stained g’rage frien’s.” His impression of Micky imitating him made Peter chuckle. “And there’s a bar I used to go hang out. Sort of biker place. I haven’t… What. What?” That light in Peter’s eyes made him nervous.

“ _Biker_ bar? Oh, that’s a stone groove. You _have_ to know that now I know we’ll all be following you in disguise.”

“Try it, kid. And, seriously, I guess me talking to someone about my bag, my deal…”

“Or we could.”

“Like marriage counseling?” Mike pointed from himself to Peter.

“For non-married non-traditional couples. Hey, ask your friend Lorene. What?”

“Shit. There’s more that I forgot to tell you. That date. I said I was doing a favor? It was to her. She gave me advice about Judy. I thought she had a pathology. Lora said no, she was just a liar, and that set me on the right track. So I owed her.”

“And…she’s repaid now?”

“Yeah.” He took Peter’s hand. “You know, she’s different off-screen. She likes drinking and dancing, going to fancy places people-watching …”

“Still scary though?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Let me amend my answer of earlier, when I described you? A Texas wild cat and the man I love.” Peter stroked Mike’s hand down his face. “Because I do, Michael. I fucking love you. I adore sharing a house with you. Sharing a bed with you. Sleeping with you. Sex with you. Making love with you. Being with you. I’ve never liked anything or anyone as much.” He let Mike cry, wiping at his face when he quieted.

“This… We didn’t… It’s not the end,” Mike stated. “You understand what I mean, right?”

“Always. And no. It’s not even the end of the beginning.”

“So it’s _the_ beginning? A do-over?”

“No. Going back’s not the way. Going forward, always. But with more honesty? And better…equipped?” Peter’s speech slowed.

“Peter…” Mike swallowed. “I feel sick.”

“Yeah, this is… Oh. Oh, God, me too.” Peter stood, holding his stomach. “Michael, you love me, right?”

“Pete, you _know_ —”

“Enough to hold my hair back while I hurl?”

“We’ll see, I guess.” Mike, nauseated, rocked to his feet too. “I have one question. What the _hell_ were those tablets?”


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit silly. And a bit pervy.

“Well, Micky?” Done trussing Micky’s wrists together in front of Micky, Mike looked up the long body of their prisoner stretched out at their mercy on the den floor. He nodded to Peter at the top end to remove the hand that had been acting as a makeshift gag over Micky’s mouth since they’d seized him from his bed—being considerate sorts, they didn’t want to wake Davy. “What were they?”

“I’ll never tell!” Micky, all red-faced, tousled-haired and wild-eyed defiance, wriggled madly between them, trying to roll to freedom.

“Phase one, if you please, Peter.” Mike locked his hands around Micky’s skinny ankles to hold him still while Peter reached with those long, shapely fingers Mike adored to lift Micky’s bound wrists in one hand and tickle him under his arms with the other.

“He’s sensitive on his ribs,” Mike advised.

“Yes, especially the right side,” Peter replied, and they both paused and raised an eyebrow at each other before Peter shrugged and set to work down Micky’s sides. Micky struggled and his bare torso flushed, but he clamped his lips shut tight. Only a _meeep_ squeaked out when Peter’s fingers strayed to Micky’s lower stomach, visible above his thin and low-riding striped pj pants, and his muscles quivered.

“He’s wicked stubborn. Phase Two?” Peter suggested.

Mike nodded, rummaging in his bag and withdrawing…the large feather. Micky’s eyes bugged out as he tracked Mike’s movements. “Last chance.” Mike lifted their captive’s right foot into his cross-legged lap and held the feather against the sole.

“Not…talk _ing_!” whimpered Micky as Mike drew the feather along the bottom of his bare foot. And he didn’t, although his body arched high into a hoop when Mike tickled the feather around his ankle. Micky thumped his free foot on the floor in a series of repeated thuds when Mike slid the instrument of torture between the splayed toes of his right foot, one after the other. He would have banged his head too if that hadn’t been cradled in Peter’s lap, and Peter not holding his shoulders firm.

“Erm, Michael? This isn’t going to work.” Peter indicated the reason why.

“ _Jeez_ , Mick, you’re such a pervert,” Mike commented, eyeing Mick’s huge boner. Well, he could hardly miss it. “Put someone’s _eye_ out with that, man.” He briefly wondered how many turn-ons Mick had. _Ah, youth._ _Wouldn’t go through that again for a million bucks._ “Better skip phase three. He probably gets off on hot wax too. Phase four? Hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but…” He caught the stuffed bear that Peter had kidnapped along with Micky and now skimmed over to him.

Sitting on Micky’s legs now, Mike pulled a lighter from his bag. “Gonna talk?” he inquired, clicking on the flame and dangling Micky’s toy over it.

“ _Mike!_ ” wailed Micky, his face the picture of abject misery. “ _Please!_ ”

“Talk, then, kid.” Mike tried to stare hard at Micky, but dropped his gaze and shook his head. “Aw, hell. I just can’t do it, man. Not his Ted.” He extinguished the flame.

“You southern pussy! Give it here.” Peter shot over and grabbed the toy and lighter from the astonished Mike. He flicked the striker and played the flame just under Ted’s foot.

“No! _Peter!_ ” Micky howled, thrashing like a salmon on a line trying to free his hands and sit. “Mike, he’ll do it! He’s the eldest—he never makes a threat he can’t follow through on! _Mike!_ ”

“Peter…” Mike was reminded how, well, _ruthless_ Peter could be. He shivered.

“ _Stop!_ ” came in a Manchester accent from beyond Peter, a second before a blast from the soda syphon extinguished the flame licking Ted’s fur and knocked the lighter from Peter’s fingers. Davy dropped the syphon and tackled Peter, knocking him flat and grabbing the only slightly burnt and somewhat wet teddy bear from him. He shoved the toy down his boxers. “There, Mick. He’s safe now.”

“Oh my God. This is a Freudian nightmare!” moaned Micky, wrapping a forearm over his eyes.

“What the merry hell is going on here?” Davy hated being woken before he was ready _and_ being seen with bedhead.

“We need to know what was in those pills. We were sick as dogs in filth, man!” Mike explained, not mentioning the booze and dope or the candy they’d also consumed.

“Yeah.” Davy pursed his lips. “Worm pellets’ll do that. Still, on the bright side, no tape worm for twelve months, eh, lads?”

“Oh, what?” A damp Peter shook himself and sat next to Mike.

“The. _Hell?_ ” Mike exploded.

“Yeah, Boy Wonder here helped himself when he went to Mrs. Purdey’s tea party for showing off her new Persian cat. Oh, what’s it called, Mike?”

“I ain’t saying that name. And I think you’re a little shit for suggesting it when you know she doesn’t know what—”

“Skanky Ho!” Micky spluttered, choking on his own laughter. “She’s got Skanky Ho and Poon Tang!”

Davy eyed Mike and Peter where they sat. “So. Worked through your bags of stuff, yeah?”

“Yes.” Peter took one of Micky’s feet into his lap and started to rub it in thanks. “We came to some decisions.”

“Like…” Davy sat, folded armed, asking Mike.

“Like I’m gonna speak to a professional—”

“Who you pay in actual money. Not…trade,” Peter threw in.

“Point taken, shotgun. About my thought patterns and behavior. My controlling tendencies, and the like.” Mike looked from Davy to Micky.

“And Pete?” Micky queried.

“Oh, Pete’s kinda like Mary Poppins,” Mike said. At three, “Huhs?” he added, attempting to imitate Peter in popping the p’s, ‘“Practically perfect in every way.’”

“Huh,” replied Davy, tossing Micky his Ted.

“That’s not quite true.” Peter released Micky’s foot and helped him sit. “For instance, I mustn’t let the coping strategies I used to deal with the abandonment I felt at my dethronement—for the next child and the one after that and the one after that—plus my father’s physical and emotional distance and mother’s emotional unavailability _and_ the instability created by the ridiculous number of moves I went through in my formative years create patterns of behavior that dictate the course of my future… including my relationships.” He smiled modestly into the chorus of gasps this elicited. “Just wanted to show that my father got his money’s worth from my therapy sessions.”

“We’ve been selfish.” Mike indicated himself and Peter as he undid Micky’s bonds. “We got wrapped up in each other and left you two out, which is uncool. So, as a first step toward rehabilitation, I hereby reinstate the return of Monkees movie night. Either Monday B-Movie Madness at the drive-in or whatever’s on the TV when we’re broke. Which can be the same night as a once-a-week—”

“Monkee pile?” Micky finished for him, his eyes shining. “Ooh, with _guests_?”

“That’s kinda shading into other areas there, Mick, but sure?” Mike looked at Peter.

“Amanda would probably like that.” Peter rubbed Micky’s wrists for him where the rope had been, even though it hadn’t been tight. “Maybe Toby too? Even Grace? Who knows?” His Micky-ministrations finished, he sat closer to Mike, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders, his heart warming when Peter looped an answering arm around his middle.

“And you love each other?” Micky demanded, facing them.

“And we’re in love with each other,” Mike confirmed.

“And we’ve got the hots for each other,” Peter capped Mike’s reply. He leaned in and tilted his chin up and Mike, unable to resist or deny Peter anything, kissed him.

“Close your eyes,” Mike managed to utter. “The other two. Not you, sugar. Well, if you like.”

“Micky. Stop looking,” Davy said a half-minute later.

“You must be too, to know!” Micky protested,

“Well, I might need some pointers, won’t I.”

Mike and Peter stopped at that, turning to Davy. “But you’re a world expert,” Peter commented.

Davy looked coy. “Not in _all_ sub-branches of the field.”

“No!” Micky exploded. “You mean—and you— _Davy!_ ” He shot to his feet and after the fleeing Davy, dashing back for his Ted then shooting off again

“Peace at last.” Mike curled his arms around Peter’s neck, not even bothering to try and figure out that last Micky-Davy exchange.

Peter opened his eyes at that. “Michael! Talk about jinxing! Don’t ever say—” He nodded in resignation as the ringing of the phone cut him off.

“Where are we? We’re here, at home, man,” Davy answered whoever was calling. His eyes widened. “You what? You sure? Because we thought—”

***

Micky was still arguing about it when they reached the Monumental sound stage as fast as the Monkeemobile would carry them. He flapped the daily sheet with every hurried step he took. “It says here ten a.m. I know how to read a—”

“Doctored call sheet.”  Mike held up another from the makeup station, presumably belonging to the makeup guy who’d downed tools waiting for them to show: the times on this one were different. Micky dashed off to the nearest cameraman and checked with his sheet. His face told them this too bore different times.

“Where did you get that one?” Mike demanded.

“These ones. I picked up yours too. With our names on.” Micky showed them. It was easy to see the times had been typed over, on these sheets of paper. Maybe Micky hadn’t noticed, or if he had, must have assumed everyone’s had been corrected. “In the main male dressing room, on top of our stuff.”

“Grace too?” Peter queried.

“I’d bet on it.” Mike indicated Grace rushed up to them, pushed along to where they sat by the makeup and hairdressing guys. _Like a goddam production line!_ came Mike’s thought a minute later as a small team went to work on their faces and hair.

Grace made apologetic faces in the mirror at everyone, but it was almost impossible to speak with a succession of irritated people, not bothering to conceal their feelings about the reshuffle of their schedules, slathering and powdering and puffing their faces, plus different people racing over to them to check on them every other minute, and other different people coming to tell the first and second ones which scenes were being juggled around on which sets. Finally their white bibs were whipped away and the stools more or less pulled from under them.

They headed past the in-use entrance hall set, from where ‘Skip’ and ‘Rico’ waved at them, to the buzzing café set, to wait while things were readied. “I start off at my table.” Grace indicated it, near the back of this set.

Mike made sure they flanked her, escorting her. At first he thought it was a magazine lying on the top of the table, a fake one, say, a prop, until Grace recoiled. “What… Oh no.”

“Is that _blood_?” Davy bent to examine the photo of Grace, a blown-up version of the one from her resume, with its deep red stain around the neck as though the throat had been cut. “No, lipstick,” came his comment. “Still nasty, though.”

“Grace, sit down.” Mike flicked the horrible picture away from her and frowned at the assistant who approached with a glass of water, saying she’d been told Grace wasn’t feeling well. “She’s fine,” Mike growled. “She ain’t no goldfish, needing water. She’s as tough as a Texan. Peter? What—”

“Monkee huddle,” Peter surprised him by saying, as did his added, “Grace too.”

Mike’s heart swelled with more pride than ever for Peter, at him taking point on this. They pulled out chairs and sat, ringing Grace in the middle.

“It can’t be that disgusting club owner Mike told us about,” Peter began, catching Grace’s hand when it flew to cover her mouth. “And it’s sick something like that happened to you.”

“Why can’t it?” Davy whispered.

“Yesterday Mike said something about behaviour not indicating a pathology, which made me realize this”—Peter waved a hand around, indicating the studio—“doesn’t fit the MO of some powerful thug. Besides, how would he get on the lot, the sound stage, the set?”

“Everyone else does,” Mike muttered. Extras and even actors hung out in the Hot Spot set until they were needed, and guests watching the filming congregated there.

“But everyone’s so nice here,” Grace protested, looking out at the crowd.

“Not…everyone.” Peter stretched out an arm as Amy Lane walked past them, and twitched her large bag from her shoulder. He caught it before it hit the floor and she carried on walking, oblivious.

 _Slick._ Mike tried to see what Peter was reading, in Amy’s notes, but could hardly understand the words written with barely any vowels in them or gaps between them.

“Hope that ain’t Dutch,” he muttered. “You taking a guess?” Although he reckoned he knew what Peter was thinking. But thinking was one thing, proving another. But he trusted Peter. In everything.

Peter shot him a smile then switched to flicking through the last _TripleH Special_ , tapping a finger on the press release about the auditions.

“I saw that,” Micky told them. “Remember?”

“Did you read this?” Peter ran a finger down the article accompanying it. “Saying who the frontrunners are expected to be?”

“We knew that,” Mike pointed out, slamming shut a _Dream Beat_ , mainly to avoid the Band of Two Idiots. His gaze snagged on a photograph in Peter’s mag, showing the new cast members.

“So what’s the next step?” Grace muttered, raising her chin.

“We’ll need an independent witness, one who doesn’t know they are.” Peter looked at Davy. “Without asking me why, because we have no time now, can you get someone neutral to go into the closet in the general female dressing room—I’m assuming it’s identical to the male one—say, to make out with you?”

“Man or woman?” Davy’s comb appeared in his hand and he twirled it around knuckle after knuckle like a Vegas magician with a coin. “Just to know.”

“Erm, either will do,” Peter said into the stunned silence.

“So you’ll need someone with a fetish for sexual experiences in enclosed spaces, like someone whose first pleasurable experience during or around puberty was in one and so still associates it with sex.” Micky nodded.

Everyone stared at him. Grace picked up Davy’s dropped comb for him and Mike closed Peter’s dropped-open mouth for him.

“You’re scaring us,” Davy whispered. “Your therapy, it must’ve been—”

“Oh, I took psych and mech courses at Los Angeles Trade Tech,” Micky explained. “Which was useful as I needed to use them both when I had to leave and get a job.”

“But…you worked in a Mercedes garage,” Davy objected.

“Yeah and who brings in Mercs? Chicks. Wives, daughters, sisters, they drop the guy off at work and wait around while the car’s being fixed or serviced so they can go collect him again…and need someone to talk about their problems to. So, mechanical engineering and psychology—great combo. For…several reasons.” He looked…shifty.

“Micky, you’re surprising. And a little worrying,” Grace commented, breaking the second stunned silence within two minutes.

“Well, we all gotta play to our strengths.” Standing, Davy scooped the contents of the bag back inside it and called, “Amy, luv, you dropped your purse!” Winking at them, he muttered, “Give me five minutes, tops,” and strolled up to the red-headed writer.

“Talking of strengths, Mick, I need you. Well, certain aspects of you,” Peter said. “Grace, whatever happens next, play along, dig?”

“Dig,” Grace replied, as Peter, his gaze on Mike as Mike’s was on him, drew Micky away. She sucked in a deep breath. “Is it…always like this, with you four?”

“What? Oh no.” Mike, straightening the vacant chairs out around the table, threw her a reassuring smile. “It’s usually a whole lot worse.”


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

Grace slid the gruesome photo into an envelope Davy had missed putting back into Amy’s bag, taking care not to touch it. She slipped this into the pages of her script to conceal it. “Evidence. We can match the lipstick, perhaps. It’s Max Factor Ruby Red, in case you didn’t know. Everyone who dyes their hair the same shade as Marilyn Monroe uses the same shade as lipstick as she did.” She attempted a laugh. “They say acting is a cut-throat world, right?”

“And I thought it was tough trying to find music gigs,” Mike agreed.

“Oh, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to see the group last night.”

“You…didn’t miss much,” Mike admitted.

Grace studied him. “Is everything okay? I mean, apart from all this crap, that I’m so sorry I’ve brought into your lives. I—”

“Kiddo…” Mike’s admonishing tone silenced her and she gave a faint-but-there smile in response. “Yeah, It’s all fine now. I kinda got hit by a truck. Metaphorically speaking. And Peter and I sorta had emergency drag racing counselling, when we didn’t even know that was a thing. We—” _Ah._ Was Grace likely to freak? “We’re—”

“I get it. I’m fine with it.” She cast a peek around, making sure no one was close enough in the bustle to overhear. “But you’re not saying you only just realized? _I_ knew. Well, suspected,” she admitted, grinning. “Although it’d be hard to miss! And you know what? I just hope one day someone looks at me the way you look at Peter and he looks at you.”

“They will.” Mike coughed to clear his thick throat. “And you’re doing great, you know.” He meant it. He laughed, indicating her little-girl dress. “You and Melodie M—”

“ _Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle Mignon!_ ” shrieked a voice, one bordering on hysteria. It matched its frilly white shirt and purple velvet suit and beret-wearing owner who almost pirouetted up to them, cutting a swathe through the café crowds, mainly by waving his arms. “And why you not ready for ze shoot, eh _? C’est insupportable!_ You think _Left Back_ magazine will wait for you?”

“ _Left…Bank_ , surely?” Grace muttered, staring at the man Mike hoped was Micky. Yep, it was.

“And Michel D’Ohlense, Paris’s premiere photographer, waits for no one!” Micky cried, juggling the camera and light meters round his neck and holding a jeweler’s magnifier to one eye. “ _C’est lamentable!_ We do you ze favour of supplying you wiz an original, a priceless Channel—”

“ _Chanel_ ,” Grace whispered.

“ _Robe_ for your photos,” ‘Michel’ continued, “Photos that will make your name, make you a star all over Europe, eh, and you leave zis precious designer piece in ze dressing room while you sit in zis fake American diner and flirt with zis, zis, real American southerner? _Ha!_ ”

“I, I’m sorry,” Grace replied, her voice meek. “I didn’t know. No one told me.”

Mike kept an eye on the ebb and flow of the crowd all around them as she continued to apologize and ‘Michel’ continued his tirade, lambasting everything from the light in California—too bright—to the film in his camera—too dark—while he gesticulated and jumped up and down on the spot. “Seems to me Grace, that’s to say, Melodie, should go get ready, yeah?” Mike broke in.

“ _Fantastique! Magnifique!_ ” Micky had just about run out of adjectives and gestures by the time they reached the women’s dressing room…where Tony and Marco, the Band of Who? hung about outside. Their faces dropped at the sight of the trio.

“Keeping watch, guys?” Mike inquired, ignoring their attempts at explanations and denials and, taking a leaf from Micky’s book of yesterday, seized them both by their ears to shove them inside the room with him, Micky and Grace. Inside, where they found newcomer to _TripleH_ Lindy Lina with scissors in one hand and a purple dress in the other. She jumped and screeched at the sight of them and the scissors’ blades bit into the fabric, the tearing noise loud.

“What the hell are you doing to that dress?” cried a female voice from the back of the room.

“ _Leslie?_ ” queried Mike of the blonde production assistant tumbling dishevelled from the small closet, followed a second later by Davy, who shrugged.

“Amy was busy, so I made do. _Jesus,_ woman!” The latter was in response to the slap across the face Leslie delivered him. “Yeah, I can see how that might have sounded,” he acknowledged, his rueful words lost in the melee that ensued, one which was compounded by Peter hustling Al into the room just as Leslie, yelling, snatched the scissors from Lindy and made a grab for the vandalized dress.

Sheltering Grace behind him, Mike indicated Micky, still flouncing and shrieking, his cameras clashing. “Are you expecting to find Rob Roy Fingerhead tied up in his briefs in a closet somewhere?” he queried of Grace.

“I don’t know what to expect from one minute to another,” she confessed, trying to peer over Mike’s shoulder. “But there do seem a lot of closets involved when you four are together?”

“What is going on here? Why did you bring me?” Al’s yell, the loudest of anyone’s so far, cut through the din of Leslie recounting what she’d seen despite Lindy, Marco and Tony denying it, and was addressed to Peter.

“It’s as Leslie says.” Peter nodded. “I brought you here to show you the saboteurs, Tony, son of Anthony Bailey, and Marco, son of Gino Martelli. Their fathers are both members of that Old Hollywood clique the Band of Brothers and this pair make up the Band of Who? Sorry, Two. Oh, and Lindy Lina’s working with them.”

“All of them furious at losing their spot on the show or seeing it cut back,” Mike continued. “These talent-deprived poseurs were supposed to play and this psycho blonde to sing with ’em, right? They said themselves they grew up on film sets—means they’re used to equipment and electrics.”

“They unplugged us, on that first day of auditions,” Micky threw in. “Oh, it’s me, Micky. I’m not a flamboyant foreign photographer.” He whipped the purple beret from his head and pulled loose his mauve cravat.

“And I bet it was Gino Martelli or Marco pretending to be him or his assistant who complained to Standards and Practices about our lyrics. Lyrics the S &P guy already knew!” Davy added. “They had to investigate, what with Gino Martelli’s annual show being such a big deal for the network.”

“Yeah, which is why you’ll keep quiet about this,” blustered one of the guys.

“Now listen here, Tony,” Mike began.

“Marco!” shouted the idiot. “I’m Marco— _he’s_ Tony!”

“He look like he cares, boy?” Al exploded. “Yeah, I’ll keep quiet about this, just as you will about why you’re being banned from the lot. Oh yes. _Security!_ ” he yelled, making everyone jump.

“They’re on their way,” Peter told him.

“Yeah? Well, I’ll deliver these bozos to them.” Mike cracked his knuckles.

“Michael.” Peter looked from him to the scared Marco and Tony. “Hosanna, yes?”

He could deny Peter nothing. Never could, never would. So he nodded, locking Marco and Tony’s arms behind their backs to bum’s rush them from the room. “You’re lucky Pete’s a decent guy,” he informed them, out in the hall. “Because that crap with the electric organ? Coulda killed him. You did that to me, woulda been the last stunt you ever pulled. But Peter’s… _kind_.”

He made it sound like a bad word as he shoved them face-first into the wall, keeping Tony in place with a knee to the back of his when he struggled. “You know, instead of all the stunts, you should get ahead by honing your skills, guys. Take me. I came from nothing. A real punk. Not like you with your rich families and your fancy schools. But I did a stint in the Air Force, straightened myself out and learned a trade there. Yeah, got my vehicle maintenance certification. Learned all about engines and motors, what makes ’em go, what makes ’em…not go. Which is mostly the transmission and the… _brakes_.”

The two creeps weren’t resisting now. Mike pushed his head in between theirs, speaking from one white face to another while locking their arms tighter, compressing their rotator-cuff tendons. “So maybe you two should think about that when you’re in your fancy cars that you got stationed on the lot. That pretty red Ferrari and that sweet white T-Bird? Nice cars, real…recognizable, wherever they are in the city, with their vanity plates. And tricky vehicles to maintain. A lot can go wrong with them. A lot that can cause… _accidents_ , you know?”

He gave a final hard wrench to each moron. “All yours,” he called, spinning them and shoving them into the path of the uniformed security officer.

Mike turned, to see Peter leaning against the door jamb, his arms folded across his chest. Mike had no clue what he was thinking until Peter said, “You read about their rides in that _Dream Beat_ piece, right?” and smiled.

The tumult spilled from the dressing room out into the hall, mainly Al yelling instructions at the security guard and howling about how much time and money this had cost his summer special baby, and how much more would be wasted breaking Lindy’s contract. The room was soon cleared of everyone except them—once Amy had come in, smacked Davy’s face and left again.

“Huh. We can kiss our feature goodbye,” Micky surmised, staring after the miffed _Dream Beat_ writer

“Nearly kissed _my_ features goodbye!” Davy informed him, examining his twice-abused face in the mirror. “For a bird, she packed a helluva wallop.”

“It’s all the typing she does, as an editorial assistant,” Peter told him. “Builds up the muscles.”

“Wow.” Grace sank onto a stool, looking dazed and shaking her head. “I know you don’t care that much about being in the show, so I have to thank you for doing all that. It was amazing.”

“And I get the feeling you don’t care all that much about the series,” Peter said, squatting so he was level with her. “You’re more interested in art than acting, for instance.”

“I suppose. But we all need the money, right? For family…or travel?” She looked from Davy and Micky to Mike and Peter. “Europe, England, London…”

Mike understood. They’d mentioned all that to her. “So that’s why you didn’t just keep a low profile, after—”

“That, and because _I_ , not some sleazy creep, get to decide what _I_ do with _my_ life! I might have been naïve then, but not anymore,” Grace exploded.

“Well, thank you, Miss Mary Grace,” Mike said softly, leaning down to kiss her cheek, freezing when Peter coughed and caught his eye.

“Old habits die hard, I see,” Peter observed before kissing Grace’s other cheek. “Thank you for doing this.”

Grace blushed and coughed, clearing her throat. She took up the purple garment from where it had been abandoned once Leslie saw it wasn’t from the show. “I’m amazed you found a dress so quickly for your scheme, Micky.”

“It’s mine.” Micky’s tone was sad as he examined the ruined item. “From when I was Mrs. Arc— You know what? It doesn’t matter.”

Grace looked sympathetic and understanding. “There’s a champagne-blonde wig here in the box too. I bet you looked good in them,” she said.

“Oh, he did. Got a proposal and everything,” Mike confirmed.

“Of marriage,” Peter clarified, standing to hug Micky from behind then rub his back for him.

“Hey, it really is a Chanel!” Grace held it up, showing the label.

“ _I know._ ” Micky’s bottom lip quivered.

Grace stood and put an arm around him. “Thank you so much for everything, Micky. We couldn’t have done this without your brilliant acting. I can see why you were a TV star as a kid! Davy told me your show was called _Sideshow Boy_ , and you were a freak in a traveling fair?”

“Not…exactly.” Micky whipped around in search of Davy, who stood safely out of thumping range.

“Would it cheer you up to go to the Duke Box tonight? I want to see the other group, Espionage—we could go…together? You know, as in, well, a date?” Grace stumbled over her words, then sped up. “And the Warm Embrace were on the radio this morning and said it’s going to be a far-out show as it’s their last night. Although, it isn’t, is it?”

“Yes, together, date, please!” Micky shouted.

“Didn’t you arrange to go there already tonight, to spend time with Lola?” Davy queried.

“Yeah, that’s what so great—she’s there anyway! The more, the merrier right, Grace? _Ow!_ ” Micky hopped where Grace stamped on his foot while calling him a pig. “Are you coming to the surfing tomorrow?” he called after her as she marched off. “Because I can add you to our Monkees surf bunnies group I’m putting together—get you your own bikini and everything. Just tell me your measurements!”

***

Mike was just glad Grace didn’t stomp on Micky again during the filming, which went on until late and resumed the next morning. He reckoned even if Lindy—or anyone—tried anything with Grace, she could handle herself. She’d proved that already, hadn’t she? And on Malibu’s crowded LongSurf Beach that afternoon, he hoped the other three’s abilities made up for his…lesser ones. God, he should have practiced. Still, they’d be interviewed again by the radio guys, which might lead to some spot or other on one of the DJ’s shows or…not, as it turned out.

“IT’S NOT FAIR!”

“Micky…” Mike, still towelling off from competing, tried to shush him. As well as their friends, a crowd from Monumental had come along to support one of their own. Or four. And get candid snaps of the _TripleH_ stars, of course. “We didn’t really expect to win, now did we?”

“But they’re not really surfers! They’re just a band using it for publicity!” Micky wailed.

“I’ll take this one, lads. Erm, Mick?” Davy gestured at the four of them.

“Well, we qualified!” Micky threw his towel onto the sand and shouted above the noise of the waves and the crowds. “They just walked into the finals—”

“Which they won.”

“Because the whole surfing competition was a set-up to introduce and publicize them.”

Seemed Davy agreed with Mike that ripping the Band-Aid off was the best way. Mike just hoped none of the serious surfers who’d gotten through the competition’s heats only to be shut out of the final would riot or storm the judges’ table. Nah—all guys, they were all staring at the four blonde chicks…and drooling.

“It’s rigged!” Micky exploded.

“Kind’ve missing the point here, Mick.” Davy turned Micky to watch the four stacked blondes squealing and jumping up and down in their tiny wringing-wet polka-dot bikinis in the FAB LA radio tent, where they handled and kissed their fat, cylindrical winners’ trophy that curved away from its base to finish in a bulbous head…the design representing a curling and cresting wave.

“The…point…” Micky swallowed.

“Yeah, all eight of ’em, in fact…” Davy trailed off too, and his and Micky’s heads moved as if on springs, following the bouncing on the small podium.

“I wonder if the Beach Babes sing as well as they surf,” mused Peter.

“But they were lousy!” Mike replied, finishing dressing.

“Still won though,” Peter pointed out.

Thinking of women surfing made Mike remember Grace. She was here supporting them and they’d promised to take her out into the waves, beyond the breakwater. She’d been having a great time, learning from spectators’ comments on the competitors, relaxed, free of shadows and now she…wasn’t there. Strange. Her things were and—

“ _Mike! Peter!_ ”

For a second he thought he’d imagined her voice, high and desperate, and cut off.

“What—”

“Did you—”

He and Peter spoke together and both at the same time caught sight of Grace. Well, her back view, where she was being dragged, struggling and kicking, up the private stairs up the cliff away from the beach, by two huge goons in dark suits.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit...way-out.

Peter grabbed Mike’s arm. “Michael, I hadn’t thought, but we’re in Malibu—”

“Where that thug’s club—”

“Is probably that building on top of that bluff, up those cordoned-off steps,” Davy finished for Mike.

“But we caught… Wait. That story—there’s another creep after Grace?”

The second half of Micky’s sentence was almost lost as the four of them hurtled over and around the beach-goers and across to the sand to the cliff edge and the roped-off stairs cut into the rock.

“Grace!” Mike called, tugging at the rope then vaulting over it. “We’re coming!”

“So’s…he.” Micky, bunched behind Mike, pointed to the tall, thickset guy descending the cliff. The man reached the halfway point and stopped. In a second, his henchmen had reached him and half-pushed Grace onto the wider, longer look-out-point and resting-spot ledge there. The four of them stopped too.

“Knew you’d come back to my town,” the man gloated. Gold rings glinted on several fingers and a shiny watch gleamed on his wrist as he whipped his sunglasses off. “Just a matter of waiting and watching.”

“Get your hands off her!” Davy yelled.

“My hands ain’t on her, kid.” The dirtbag held them up in mocking proof. “Although they should be, after she committed grand theft larceny and assault against me.”

“ _What?_ ” Peter’s incredulous exclamation spoke for all them.

“This crazy broad attacked me and stole my car! And now she thought she could waltz back in and blackmail me, shake me down again?” He scoffed.

“Mike, I didn’t— I wasn’t—” Grace’s face, turned to them where they stood a step or so below, was desperate.

Mike’s arms held back the other three flanking him. It would be stupid to try anything here, where the danger of slipping…or being pushed, was too high. “Seems we got two different stories here, man.” Although he believed Grace. The sadistic glow of revenge and throb of self-satisfaction on the club-owner’s face belied him. “So better call the cops, let them deal with it.”

“Oh I did, and they’re taking it very seriously. They’re waiting for her up there.” He smirked.

 _And on your payroll._ Mike thought fast. “They’ll ask you why you didn’t report it when it happened.” He doubted the guy had—there’d be a warrant out for Grace.

“What, big tough guy like me? Why, I was ashamed and embarrassed.” He waved a hand at Grace. “Which she’s counting on in coming back here to extort more from me. All because she fell for me when we met in New York and followed me here and found me with another dame, which got her crazy-mad.” He sighed and his goons sniggered.

“No one would believe that!” Davy scorned, pointing from Grace to the guy.

“My cops will.” The guy’s face and eyes hardened.

“Because they’re as corrupt as you!” Micky accused.

“Clever boy!” mocked the scum and his hoods laughed. “There’s a brain under that hair!”

 _Shit._ That this hood had all the power here, Mike didn’t doubt.

“Apart from the fact that you’re so repulsive I would never be attracted to you, Spanos, I didn’t take your car intending to steal it—I just borrowed it and called to tell you where I left it!” Grace cried. “You know I did!”

“What car?” Micky asked suddenly.

“What?” Spanos scowled.

“What make and model? I bet it’s real fancy and real expensive. Classy too, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow.” Spanos rolled his shoulders. “Luxury British car.”

“Yeah, sure is. What color?”

Just behind Mike and to his right, Micky was…vibrating. _Thrumming._ Mike didn’t get it and didn’t like it, but had to trust it. Trust _him_.

“Ivory,” Spanos answered, frowning.

Micky chuckled. “Dirty white. That’s what all those white shades like ivory, porcelain or seashell are called in the trade. Is it that one?”

The one…that was rolling from the small lot next to the low wooden building Mike assumed was the club. Rolling forward, slowly, to the edge of the cliff…and not showing any signs of stopping.

“What the fuck—that’s my— Get up there, you morons!” Spanos pummelled the air in fury as if he could stop the vehicle slipping over and toppling down. “That car’s worth more than any of you!”

Looking confused, the two hoods released Grace and started climbing, shouting and calling, as was Spanos, trying to alert whoever was up there. Maybe the cops supposedly waiting would take care of it, thought Mike, easing Grace behind them. The car creaked, or maybe that was the cliff edge, when the vehicle’s front half slid over to hang, teetering and rocking up and down.

“Jesus, no!” shouted the man, falling to his knees.

Mike doubted he was concerned about possible injury to people on the sands below, although that was uppermost in Mike’s mind. If the five of them hugged the cliff face when the vehicle fell, they should just about be—

“And that’s your business, there?” Micky’s voice was hoarse.

“Yes, that’s his horrible club,” Grace answered.

“Wooden. Wood burns.”

It did—or at least flames were licking the building, sparking and hissing, despite the scuzzbag’s, “ _Noooo!_ ” as he cradled his head in his hands.

“And dreams can go up in smoke,” Micky added, in a strained whisper. “Not just now, but anytime, anywhere. Just look over your shoulder and we’ll be standing there.”

The song’s finger snaps, now sounding menacing, and its strutting bassline, now a single throbbing note, accompanied his words. “Leave Grace alone,” Micky said. “For ever.” He spoke louder, over the crackling and bursting from above—the fire taking a hold on the premises as the Rolls-Royce teeter-tottered, each up and down bigger and each creak louder.

“Yes, I-I promise! I’ll never come near her or any of you again!”

 _For what that’s worth._ Yet somehow Mike believed if not him, then the look of sheer terror on his ashen face as he flicked a glance at Micky. Mike steadied the others as the sleazeball staggered for the next step up, scrabbling and clawing.

“Best hurry up,” shouted Davy.

“In case of fire—”

“Run!” they all added to Peter’s words.

 Mike turned to support Micky, who sagged suddenly. As if a bubble had popped, they were back once again above the blue-green of the sea and the people-dotted beige of the sands, under the blue of the sky. Back to reality. Or…what passed for their reality. They made their slow way down the rock steps and handed Grace over to her roommates who were just starting to climb up, their questions and Grace’s confused answers tumbling over one another. Mike jerked his head at her to go with them and she nodded, making an _I’ll call_ phone gesture with one hand. Her friends knew her story, Mike supposed, thinking over how protective they were of her, how they accompanied her to places.

Seeing Grace was taken care of meant Mike could turn to Micky. Micky, who was leaning over, his back against the rock face, his hands on his knees. “I shouldn’t have done that,” came indistinctly from his upside-down head.

“That…what?” Peter asked, after glancing at the others.

“I’ve said too much,” came faintly.

If Micky was doing some bit, their shrugs said that none of them had any idea what it was.

“ _Michael?_ ” mouthed Peter.

Mike, head spinning, shaded his eyes to stare up the cliff and its long, low wooden building…from which no smoke billowed and no flames crackled, just as the edge of the cliff next to it was empty of a lurching dirty-white Rolls-Royce. The only thing he could detect as looking different was a slight haze shimmering over the beach, but that might have been the sun. But, what he’d seen? And he hadn’t been the only one…had he?

“Guys,” he said carefully and slowly, keeping his voice quiet and calm. “You know how there’s things that we might have taken for granted or not thought of as a big deal? Seen as say, something to do with the pad, for instance.” When no one jumped in, he scowled and went on, “Like, you know how we sorta share fantasies—oh, as in scenes, shared imagination, not anything—”

“And in costumes,” Davy chipped in. “Again, not anything titillating.”

“And can see one another’s thoughts.” Peter looked at him. _Go on,_ Mike prompted. _Me?_ Peter’s puppy-dog face asked. _Yes, you,_ Davy’s drawn-in eyebrows insisted. Peter rubbed Micky’s still bent-over back. “Mick, that TV show when you were a kid…”

“ _Wizard Boy_ ,” Davy piped up.

Micky looked up from under his eyebrows to glare at him. “It’s not called— Oh yeah. That’s right. What about it?”

“Well, I came across some stuff about that early role of yours, when I was looking for something else,” Davy admitted.

When he’d been trying to find stuff on the cringe-inducing pilot Micky had starred in, as a boy raised in the jungle by apes. And Jesus, the teasing over that—

“Well, I read that _Wizard_ was a bit…different? That not even Hollywood technicians or real magicians could figure out how those tricks were done,” Davy muttered.

“No. Well…”

Anything Micky might have said was lost as Al and a couple of the older-guy producers from Monumental hurried over, jostling and trying to shake off a second bunch of executive-suit-wearing guys attempting to outpace them.

“Micky!” cried one of the second group. “It’s me, Jed, from Sandwest Productions, remember?” He shook off Al’s hand on his arm and bent to see Micky’s face. “We used to make _Wizard Boy_ with you, out at Camero Studios? And you know how you’ve been searching for another vehicle ever since? Well, we got—”

“ _We_ got!” cried Al. “Micky—”

“A concept for a follow-up – _Wizard Boy_ is now _Private Wizard_ , still having crazy adventures and getting into and out of trouble, while at basic training, serving his country!” Jed finished all in one breath.

“Micky, this is pure gold!” cried another of the Sandwest people. “The kids who grew up with you as _Wizard Boy_ are now all late teens, either called up or awaiting selection and—”

 _Would eat this up with a spoon._ As would Micky. Mike knew how much he’d adored his childhood role. How much he wanted to star in something else, never mind that he was trying to make it in the world of music at the moment. He’d—

Micky straightened up and looked at the eager, gaping crowd of producers and money men who could greenlight his starring-role return to the small screen. “No thanks,” he replied. “I’ve moved on.”

He strode off, leaving the other three to follow. And shrugging, as confused as the executives, they did.

***

“He’s still asleep, huh?” Mike spoke softly, even though they were in the den and Micky in his bedroom with the door closed again.

Davy, returned from checking on his roommate, nodded. “I don’t get it!” he burst out, unable to hold it in any longer. “Is it why Mick has powers? Or they made the series _because_ he has powers?”

“I don’t know, man.” Mike shook his head. “But Mick doesn’t wanna talk about it, so we’ll honor that and never mention it again, agreed? Monkee swear?” As they nodded, he held out his hand, Peter clasped it, and Davy bookended them both.

“Crap,” Mike began.

“Fuck,” Peter added.

“Bollocks,” Davy finished, and, Monkee swear complete, they dropped their hands. “I’ll write it in the special section of the meeting book, yeah?”

Mike nodded. “We’ve got lemons.” _Damn._ He hadn’t meant to say that in front of Peter.

Davy headed to the kitchen and Peter eyed Mike. “Writing…lemons…you’re talking about invisible ink, right? Now I’m wondering what else you and Davy’ve recorded in the book that’s not…apparent.”

“Erm…” came sheepishly from near the counter. “Mike?”

“Well,” Mike hedged.

“You know I can read it anytime, just by heating it up?”

Yeah. Pete would know that. “Oh, I wouldn’t bother there, shotgun,” Mike deflected.

“No. You’re right. Why would I, when I can make _you_ tell me…in private.” Peter gave his most wicked smile and Mike went weak at the knees.

“So. We got invited to the Embrace’s last night at the Box…” Mike tried to change the subject. He didn’t bother asking if anyone was going, even though he, Peter and Davy hadn’t collapsed in exhaustion like Micky had. Grace maybe would, although when she’d called, she’d seemed a little muddled about what had happened—the only thing she knew for sure was they’d managed to get Spanos to back off and leave her alone, for which she’d thanked them over and over and told them she owed them big.

“Their last night? That means nothing to them. I bet they turn up tomorrow to play anyway, alongside the new headliners,” Peter surmised.

Yeah, Mike could see that and would bet it was hilarious. Worth going to see. Davy turned the TV on and they dropped into their customary positions to watch whatever was showing, summer replacement shows included, although Mike doubted anyone was paying much attention. By the second commercial break for the old movie, Micky had shuffled in, trying to conceal that he was eyeing them cagily. When they just nodded at him and continued mocking the cheesy dialogue, he slipped onto the rug in front of the sofa, his usual place, and Peter leaned down to scratch into his curls, as he usually did.

Davy passed Micky a half-full bottle of soda and Micky took a massive gulp of it. “I’ve seen this,” he said, pointing the neck of the bottle at the black-and-white scene playing on the TV.

“Mick, I bet your _grandfather’s_ seen this,” Mike commented.

“Ah, guys?” Micky took a breath, looking straight ahead at the screen. “Do any of you got any questions for me?”

“Yeah. One.” Davy threw a pillow at him. “What’s for dinner? It’s your night to cook.”

“I’m starving, man.” Peter rubbed his stomach and jerked a thumb at the kitchen.

“And it better not be popcorn ag—” Mike broke off at the noise. “What the— That came from the bathroom!”

Micky pointed at them all one by one, counting. “But we’re all here!”

They scrambled to their feet as the bathroom door opened and a figure slid out, switching off the overhead and leaving them in the small circle of lamplight. The figure, attired in an enveloping trench coat, fedora hat pulled low and dark glasses on, approached.

“Hullo, chaps,” it said.

“ _Amanda?_ ” Mike yelped at their summer neighbor, Toby’s English guest. He tried not to clutch his chest at the small Monkee scare he'd gotten.

“Yes, been a while, thought I’d pop in, you know,” she breezed, sliding the dark glasses from her hazel eyes and pulling down the shades to cover the glass between the band podium and the sundeck.

“Through the bathroom window?” Davy queried.

“ _How?_ ” Peter asked. It only opened at the top.

“Oh, I just popped it out of its frame. Easy enough thing to do. We learned in Journalism school,” came her airy reply. She skimmed off the concealing hat and her dark-blonde swathes of hair tumbled free.

“What’s wrong?” Mike invited her to sit, but she paced.

“Wrong? Wr— Fellows, can’t a neighbor simply call round and…ask if anyone needs money or owes her a favor?”

“Amanda. What do you ne—”

“Someone to marry me,” she answered, before Mike had finished his question. "And...like, _really_ soon."

 


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

“Is it your visa?” Davy said into the stunned silence. “Is that why you’ve been, well, not here for a bit?”

“No.” She sighed and chewed on her pouty bottom lip. “I’ve sort of been in hiding. A bit.”

“From…?” Mike sat on the sofa, Peter joining him. Micky slid into the chair and Davy perched on its arm.

“Ugghh. Well. Pongo.”

“That British guy?”

 “The Consul-General, um,” she answered Mike.

She was barefoot, Mike noticed. And had sweet little toes, their nails all painted. “Why?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s just a huge misunderstanding.” She waved a hand. “One that can easily be solved by me marrying another man.”

“I don’t think that can be the answer,” Peter commented. “Oh, I’m not saying expedient marriages are inherently wrong, of course. I wouldn’t be so hypocritical. And no judgment here, either. But I’m not sure…”

“Oh. You’re probably right.” Despondent, Amanda sank to sit cross-legged on the end table.

“Never mind about paying us money—I’ll pay _you_ to tell us what went down!” Davy demanded. As ‘Pongo’s’ ward, albeit on paper only, he probably had a right to know.

“Oh, bugger.” Amanda took a deep breath. “Okay. Well, there…might have been fur-lined handcuffs…and Fizz Wizz popping candy—which should _seriously_ be illegal, or at least come with a _huge_ warning about not using it…in that way, and certainly not with handcuffs—”

“Skip ahead?” Mike begged, feeling a little hot under the collar.

“I am! And it seems in the throes, so to speak, I cried out, ‘Oh lord, marry me,’ and he said ‘yes’, well, actually, ‘yes, please’ and I was too dazed to reply and correct matters and now it’s all going ahead and he’s so excited and there’s the dress and the house and the chapel—the dress and the chapel come with the house—and—”

“ _What?_ ” Micky cried.

She exhaled and fanned her face with her hand. “But it’s fine. I have a plan. Not the one about marrying someone else first. I see now that was silly. Thank you, Peter. A different and better plan. Plan B. B for better.”

“And that would be…?” Peter prompted.

“Oh, right. All I need is someone to stand up at the ‘just cause and impediment’ bit and cry, in ringing, convincing tones loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘Stop! That’s my child she’s carrying!’

Mike took a peek at the others. Nope, way everyone’s mouth was hanging open, it was up to him. “And…are you…”

“Well, that’s Plan C, for Conception, or the pre-plan for B for Baby, or… Oh. Forget it.” Amanda jumped to her feet. She unwrapped her oversized coat and threw it aside to reveal the tiniest sheerest black baby doll nightdress known to man. “Why am I even trying? Who’d be crazy enough to want to —”

“Me!” Micky waved his hand in the air. “I’m crazy enough—ask anybody—and I’ll try anything once!”

“Probably have to be more than once.” Davy slid off the arm of the chair. “Because body hair correlates to virility, right, and you’re as smooth as—”

“Still me!” Micky shouted. “Pick me!”

“Oh, Micky, you’re very sweet.” Amanda shook her head. “But I couldn’t—”

“Yeah you could!” And with that he grabbed her and tumbled her into his lap to French her…extremely deeply and thoroughly and lengthily. He slid one hand under the hem of her nightgown to grab her ass and slipped the other up her ribcage to cup a breast and come to rest with a thumb stroking firmly over a hardening nipple in time with his forays into her mouth.

“Micky?” Amanda finally let up for air, gasped, starry-eyed and swollen-lipped. “You, you kiss…just like _Mike_.”

As everyone turned from Mike to Micky and back again, Micky gulped. “I can of course explain.”

“And I want you to!” Amanda breathed. “In fact, I _insist_ on it. In _great_ detail and at _great_ length.”

They all tried to look away as she cupped Micky on that last word and bent her face to his to kiss some more.

“Mike?” Peter stood hands on hips, waiting.

“Heh.” Mike rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not what you think there, babe.”

“Would it have anything to do with a kissing booth?”

“Ah. I was kinda hoping no one would mention that,” Mike admitted.

“God.” Davy tore himself away. “I’m as randy as a goat after that, me. Think I’ll go over to Toby’s.” He threw them a wink.

“Davy—” Amanda unsuckered her lips from Micky’s a fraction.

“’S’okay, I’ve got a key,” he called over his shoulder, on his way to the door.

“No…she…bed…” Amanda tried, in between Micky kissing and groping her.

“Yeah, I know which one’s her room.” The door swung closed in Davy’s wake.

“Damn!” Amanda tore her face free of Micky’s and swiveled to face the room but didn’t get up. Kind of tricky to do so, Mike reasoned, when she was sitting astride one of Micky’s legs and both his hands fondled her chest from behind as he bit into her neck. “Toby’s not here! And her brother’s in town and taking her room for a few days.”

“Her twin brother? The blond?” queried Micky.

“Yes! And he’s in her bed asleep and it’s dark in the house and—”

“We better go after him.” Mike stood. He caught Peter’s eye. “Ah. Except—”

“No coddling,” Peter finished for him.

“But, babe… Fine. No cotton wool,” Mike muttered, resigned.

Peter sank to the sofa again and patted his lap. “Want me to take your mind of it for you?”

“Talking of…” Amanda made a valiant effort and stood. “We’d better take this elsewhere, Micky. Somewhere a bit quieter.”

“Ooh yeah.” Micky only just stopped himself rubbing his hands together.

“We need paper and pencil. And a ruler… And probably a rubber.” Amanda looked around.

“Now you’re talking… Wait. You mean a pencil eraser, don’t you.” Micky spoke Davy-English. “And…why the paper and—”

“I need to draw you a plan of the chapel, of course! To plan the elopement at the ‘just cause’ bit?”

“The—”

“Yes. Wrong word. Thank you, Peter. Abduction.” Amanda nodded. “So, forget Plan B and C. New plan, Plan K: in the nick-of-time Kidnapping of the bride. I know exactly where you need to sit to sprint to the altar and grab me, so we just need to go through the timings! We’ll build a mock-up and have a few rehearsals. And a dress rehearsal. Oh, you’ll need the right clothes. Oh! Do you have a passport, because the wedding’s in England? And we’ll need a motorcycle for the getaway—are you okay with driving on that side of the road?—to the airport. Oh, and I can come back here to live after, when I have to flee the country, can’t I?”

“Cee-Cee—”

“Pretty please?” she begged Mike.

“Cee-Cee, this is crazy!” Micky cried. “If you don’t wanna marry the guy, all you gotta do is detonate a couple smoke bombs in the chapel and make a run for it!”

Amanda’s, “God, so I have! Micky, you’re a genius!” bounced against Mike and Peter’s attempts at being the voices of reason.

“I got a whole box of ’em,” Micky assured her. “Different colors too—we can coordinate to your color scheme. Match the flowers, you know? I even got a pair of ladies’ goggles so you’ll be able to see after you pull the triggers. I…just never found the right woman to wear ’em before.” He ground a toe into the floor.

“Oh, thank heavens that’s sorted.” Amanda looked weak with relief. “Well, let’s just go and fornicate, then, shall we?”

The high-pitched squeal was Amanda when Micky grabbed her into a fireman’s life and ran for his room with her, and the ape-like roar was the noise Micky made doing it.

Mike’s knees gave out and he collapsed next to Peter on the sofa. They both jumped when Micky’s bedroom door clanged shut.

“So…that happened,” Peter said, eventually. “You…don’t have any comments? Any…cautions?”

“Nah.” Mike took Peter’s hand. “Let them work it out. Outta their systems, too. There’s rubbers. In both Mick’s and Davy’s nightstands. And the bathroom. And the upstairs bedroom. And bathroom.”

“How…what… Do you keep the pad supplied with condoms?” Peter could hardly speak for laughing.

“And the garage. And the car,” Mike muttered.

Peter studied him. “Why do I think there’s a story there?”

“Hey, we better fix that window!” Mike declared, and rushed for the bathroom. Wow, she’d pushed the whole thing out. On a hunch, he went back to the den and fetched her coat. He pulled a roll of soft fabric from one pocket and unrolled it to find lockpicks of various sizes. Huh.

He widened his eyes at the thin pry bar on a hook in the coat’s lining. He’d bet she used that. “Some Journalism course, huh?” he commented.

Peter held up the utility knife he found in a concealed inside pocket. “I’m guessing she took the tabloid press elective.” He helped Mike reattach the vertical strips Amanda had removed from either side of the frame. “Life would probably be much easier if she had her own key,” he mused.

“Especially if she’s living here. Like, if the plan goes ass-up and she and Mick find themselves hitched instead,” Mike snorted.

Peter laughed too, but fell silent, helping to push the window back into the frame. Mike sneaked a look over at him as they rinsed off their hands after. “Marriage?” he asked, catching onto a wisp of a thought. He was vaguely pleased he still could—that _they_ still could, he guessed. He’d wondered if them talking about the…whatever it was would make it go away.

“C’mon.” Peter led the way to the kitchen and lit the gas under the kettle. He hopped up to sit cross-legged-on the counter while it boiled. “What? Why the…” He traced Mike’s grin to finish his question.

“No, nothing. Just, I associate that with you. Or see you doing that.” Mike indicated Peter’s perch. They both winced at a loud, “Ohhh, crikey!” from the downstairs bedroom next to the kitchen.

“The pupil has become the master!” Peter spluttered, then shied away from Mike poking him in the ribs. “Well, as they say, ‘when the pupil is ready, the master will appear. When the pupil is truly ready, the master will disappear.’”

“Yeah, _Dream Beat_ got some pearls of wisdom all right,” Mike deadpanned. “Let’s do that. Vamoose, I mean.” He waited as patiently as he could for Peter to make tea, then ushered him to the sundeck—the farthest they could get from the downstairs bedroom without going down to the beach. “So, lay your pearls on me.”

“That sounds…vaguely dirty,” Peter commented. “But I was thinking that in the past the ‘unto death us do part’ made sense, with life expectancy being, what, thirty? But not nowadays, dig?  People should have the chance to renege. To rethink.”

“Like…divorce?” Mike arranged the pillows between his back and the wall and settled to cuddle Peter to him, one arm holding him tight. He smiled to feel Peter unbuttoning his shirt to play with his pelt.

“Not as such. That’s a severance. More like a natural elapse?”

“Ah. Like handfasting on the top of a mountain, like Julie and Carl. Sorry, Jewel and Cloud.” Wouldn’t do to forget their _nomes d’hippie_.

“No…” Peter wriggled out an arm and his voice came from around his mug of whatever tea. “A year and a day’s not enough. It takes long than that just to settle in.”

“Umm.” Mike considered. True enough, if he thought back to his first year with Peter. And that was just living in the same shared space, not living _together_. And now they _were_ together? Didn’t seem like it would be anything _like_ enough.

“Did you know that every seven years, we’re different people, because every single cell in our body has been renewed?” Peter gave a slight bite to one exposed nipple, his lips and mouth hot from his tea, and swung to sit up. “So seven years seems reasonable, right?”

“For a commitment?” Mike nodded. “Yeah, you might think you know what you want at the start of that period, but you could change during.” Not that he thought he would, and sure as hell hoped Pete wouldn’t either. “It’s a good run of time.”

“So, seven, fourteen, twenty-one…” Peter shot him an under-his-eyelashes glance. “And I’ve known what I wanted for the last year and a half.”

“Me too.”

“So…that leaves five and a bit years from now? Then when we’re a little older, we’ll…see?” Peter continued.

“See how our relationship has grown? Not just in how it’s shaped but how it’s shown? Oh, just a lyric I kinda thought of. Yeah, that seems…right.”

It seemed very right, and so much more, and Mike knew Peter understood that. He checked it was dark enough and that they were covered by the tree enough to pull him down for a kiss, as thorough and lengthy as any Micky had bestowed on Amanda. “ _Love you,_ ” he whispered, thrilling when Peter said it back.

“If we’re talking about this, we should talk about children too.”

“Huh?” Mike saw Peter was serious.

“You’re…paternal, Michael. It’s how you’re made. You won’t change and I wouldn’t want you too. But I can’t help, well, obsessing about it. Because what does that mean for us, together?” He sped up over Mike’s attempt to stop him. “You’re a natural father and you’ll want a child.”

“Peter, I can’t say if you’re wrong or right. I do know you’re mighty smart…” Yeah, he couldn’t goof his way out of this one. Maybe never again, with Peter, not now. And if that wasn’t part-liberating and part-terrifying. “I’m not ready. I know I’m not. Because of something that happened when I was at college. Or turned out…not to happen.” Now he was speaking faster, to get it out. Not all out. This…wasn’t the right time. “You can imagine what I’m talking about, I’m sure. But when it…came to nothing…”

“How did you feel?”

“ _Relieved._ I fled and bolted for here anyway.”

Peter kneeled close to him, absorbing that confession. “So you weren’t ready _then_.”

“And honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever be. I…I’m too selfish, babe. Taking total physical care of and physical _and_ emotional responsibility for someone else? I’m not like you.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, you. You’re nurturing, you know. When we helped out Mrs. Purdey with her newborn grandson when it was too much for her? You _dug_ looking after such a little bitty baby, bathing him, feeding him...even changing the goddamn diaper!” He chuckled.

“Oh.” Peter sat back a little. “I never thought about it like that, but, wow, yeah. I did. It was groovy. I liked…I’d like having a baby about the place. In my life. And you’d like to be a father one day…”

They both burst out laughing. “We fit, darlin’,” Mike managed. “Like our kinks do. One day, huh? I’d probably be as jealous as hell that you weren’t just for me, but I guess it’s about the only way and the only other person I could ever share you with.”

Peter understood, Mike knew. He didn’t need to see Peter’s small nod.

“Well, better start small, practice. Get a dog,” Mike suggested.

“Well, I was raised with dogs—no pun intended—but I’m more of a cat person,” Peter countered.

“Hm. Compromise then.” Mike took his hand. His, “One of each,” hit against Peter’s, “A llama.”

“A lla— Oh, what is this, _llama_? How in the _world_ is that a compromise?” Mike felt genuinely lost.

“Everyone likes llamas. No one can dislike llamas. Especially a family of baby ones.” Peter gave Mike his best wide-eyed innocent look.

Mike narrowed _his_ eyes. “Why do I detect Micky’s hand in this? What the hell has he arranged and roped you into, gotten you to soften me up for?”

“Michael!” Peter protested…not meeting his eyes.

“Well, whatever it is, I’m betting the rest of the summer’s gonna be…interesting.” Mike gathered Peter to him and settled them down again. “Easy bet, when every day with you is.”

The soft, sweet kiss he bestowed on the top of Peter’s silky head was mirrored in the one Peter, nuzzling into his chest, gave him. If the rest of the summer went anything like this, Mike would be content. No matter how many…llamas life threw at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the fic!


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